Hi, hello, thanks for sticking around even after last week. Credits for the quote used in this chapter goes to The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse which made me cry when it was first published and then made me cry again when the animated version was shown on TV (and then took over TikTok too).
It got a little easier each day. Like the fall had been unnoticeable, so too was the rise. It got lighter gradually. Sometimes it was overwhelming, and it took a great deal of effort not to hate himself for that - do better, be stronger, stop letting everyone down – but he could breathe again without feeling as if he was collapsing in on himself. It seemed ridiculous to celebrate eating meals at a table or wearing jeans rather than sweats or having the energy to drag a comb through his hair, but those little wins were still signs of improvement and so had to be cherished accordingly.
Alan remained elusive. Scott tried to convince himself that it didn't hurt. Logic – and Virgil, for that matter – promised that it wasn't personal, but he was too used to believing the lies his mind fed him. The more time that passed the worse it got, until just thinking about Alan's deliberate evasiveness was enough to open the floodgates to the voice in his head. Being kind to himself was difficult after so many years of doing the exact opposite. His brain was hardwired to blame himself first and consider other possibilities later.
It was made worse by the fact that he knew that John and Virgil were keeping secrets. Whispered conversations, suspicious disappearances plus Virgil's atrocious lying abilities all made a fairly convincing argument. He didn't know what they were keeping from him or why, but he was certain that Alan was involved. Gordon too, because there were only so many times that Virgil could claim their brother was 'busy' and John was noticeably cagey whenever Gordon's name was mentioned.
The only positive was that John seemed to have gained temporary control over the hivemind. He was back on a cocktail of meds blended with the fire trick and it wasn't sustainable but for now it was enough. He didn't seem particularly worried, anyway, although it was difficult to tell whether that was genuine or a pretence for Scott's benefit. For his part, Scott also hadn't been dragged into the hivemind headspace, so hey, that was another win.
He was still exhausted most days, both emotionally and physically, but he'd finally gotten his head above water again and now that he'd caught his breath it was easier to keep swimming. Three steps forward, two steps back was too accurate for comfort – in the morning he felt good enough to help Virgil whisk eggs into omelettes, but by afternoon he'd ended up on the couch with his head on John's shoulder staring blankly at the TV without seeing anything, flinching at the slightest sound and focussing on the pressure of John's knee against his own to assure himself that he was here, not with the Hood.
Virgil joined them around early evening.
Scott was still out-of-it, half-asleep but unable to get his mind to switch off long enough to actually rest. He was curled against John's side in a subconscious attempt to make himself as small as possible. At one point panic had begun to creep in for no apparent reason. The more he'd tried to will it away the worse it grew until John cautiously petted his hair as if he was some sort of stray cat and for some unknown reason it had worked. Now, eyes closed, he became aware of the cushions sinking slightly as another person sat down.
"Long day?" John questioned, quietly, unsure as to whether Scott was awake or not. There was a distinct undertone, suggesting that the question held deeper meaning.
"Better than yesterday. Still not great, but not any worse either." Virgil muffled a yawn with his sleeve. "Is he awake?"
John shrugged his free shoulder. "Not sure. Dozing, I think."
Virgil's frown was audible in his voice. "What happened while I was gone? He seemed better this morning. I even got a real smile out of him."
"Nothing happened as such." John carefully tucked the blanket a little higher around Scott's shoulders. "It's not as simple as that."
"No, I know, I just…"
"Yeah," John murmured, sort of sadly. "I get it. But on a positive note, he actively sought me out when it started getting bad again. He is getting better – not just in general but in terms of asking for help too – but undoing decades of thinking a certain way takes time."
There was a brief pause.
"There's never going to be a perfect time to tell him. You realise that, right?" Virgil fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. There were a couple of thuds as he kicked his shoes off to draw his feet up. "The longer we leave it, the worse it's going to be."
"Not yet."
"John, we can't keep it a secret forever. He's already suspicious. How much longer do you expect him to buy the Gordon's busy excuse?"
Virgil stole the remaining half of John's bagel, ignoring his brother's protests.
"You should visit," he remarked around a mouthful. "He's been asking for you."
"Don't get crumbs on the sofa." John couldn't swat him without disturbing Scott and so settled for scowling instead. "You're clearing this up."
"Don't I always?" Virgil deadpanned. "Marisa is the only other person in this place who helps out."
"I cleaned the bathroom two days ago."
"Well gee, John, congratulations. I'm so impressed. Would you like a medal?"
"Yes, actually."
Virgil polished off the rest of the bagel. "Go and see Gordon."
"What about Scott?"
"He's out for the count. I'll just carry him. He should sleep in a proper bed, or he'll put his back out."
John made a vague sound of agreement but didn't get up. He was drumming one hand against the armrest absently and the tiny vibrations could be felt throughout the couch. Perhaps he'd somehow absorbed all of Scott's anxious energy. He switched to flipping a coin across his knuckles.
"John," Virgil prompted, less chiding, more of a question.
"You saw that prognosis."
Virgil faltered. "It's not a certainty. Besides, odds don't exactly apply to Gordon. He's got an uncanny habit of pulling miracles outta thin air. But even if… He's a survivor. He won't let it beat him. He'll figure out a way to get past it."
"Oh, I don't doubt that for a second. I'm more concerned about what it would do to Alan."
John's hands finally stilled. He was silent for a minute and when he spoke it was with chilling certainty, tainted by dread.
"If Gordon makes anything less than a full recovery, Alan won't forgive himself. I don't know what we do with that."
Virgil buried his head in his hands with a sigh. "Gordon doesn't blame him."
"Doesn't matter, he already blames himself."
"Accidents happen. I mean, I gave you a black eye that one time in training."
"Giving someone a black eye is very different to fracturing their skull with a fucking baseball bat."
Virgil flinched, voice tiny as he whispered, "It was an accident."
"I know, but accident or not, Alan still believes it was his fault and that's a problem. Guilt eats you alive, you know that. Scott's a prime example."
"Alan isn't Scott."
"They're too damn similar for comfort. The issue is that I can't tell how much of it is because Scott raised him and how much is down to genetics. I'm praying it's the former because otherwise- I can't go through this again, Virg. Not with him."
"We won't. You're-"
"If you dare suggest that I'm overreacting, I swear to God."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"Really?"
"Really. I was going to highlight the fact that you're exhausted, stressed and jumping to the absolute worst-case scenario as a consequence." Virgil stood up, moving around to grip John's shoulders. "Hey. Look at me. Whatever happens, we will figure it out together, as a family. Now, take a shower and go visit Gordon."
Scott kept alternating between the ability to sleep for ten hours straight and being unable to get any rest at all. The latter was more dangerous because it left him alone with his thoughts.
Perhaps alone was the wrong word, because while Virgil and John now trusted him to be by himself again they were still reluctant to stay away for too long simply due to their own anxiety. But when it was the middle of the night, Scott wasn't about to wake his brothers up just because he might have been spiralling a little. Especially not Virgil, whose insomnia had been worse than ever lately.
Virgil, who was currently facedown snoring into a pillow. The clock reported that it was roughly two-AM. Scott had been staring at the ceiling since midnight and was either on the verge of a ground-breaking epiphany which would unlock all the secrets of the universe or was about to go insane. There was no middle ground. Obviously.
Boredom and hunger won over the cosy warmth of the blankets. He hauled himself upright and spared a moment to tuck the duvet around Virgil's shoulders before cautiously slipping into the hallway. A series of motion-activated lights flickered into life at floor-level, bathing the space in a silvery glow not unlike moonlight. He pulled the door shut behind him, careful not to wake Virgil by accident, then went on the hunt for snacks. His appetite had only returned over the past couple of days but ever since then he'd been non-stop hungry.
Like with insomnia versus chronic fatigue, he'd been veering wildly between being unable to get enough grounding and being unable to cope with sensory input. So far, tonight was looking good. The floorboards were pleasantly smooth against his bare feet like worn pebbles on a beach and the constant hum of recycled air units didn't bother him. The air held just enough of a chill for him to tug his hoodie closer, wrapping his arms around himself as he wandered into the kitchen.
Someone had restocked the cupboards. Scott recognised several of the items that had been transported in those crates on the train. Colourful packaging tempted him, but he knew better than to start binging rich food after eating so little for so long. He could still recall the nausea that had followed those two handfuls of Goldfish crackers all that time ago now.
The thought brought his mind back to Gordon's vanishing act. He knew damn well that his brother wasn't just busy. He'd tried to do some investigating, but his resources were limited and holograms gave him a headache these days if he looked at them for too long. Virgil had assured him that it was just another part of the recovery process which would become less of an issue as time went on, but he wasn't entirely convinced.
He also wasn't convinced by his brother's attempts at lying. Virgil had a terrible poker face. John, on the other hand, was less easy to read but even he had slipped up a couple of times. Scott was ninety-percent certain that something bad had happened. His brothers had kept him in the dark to protect him while he was in a fragile state of mind, and he loved them for caring but hated not knowing. The only reassuring factor was that Gordon was definitely alive.
He mulled over the facts whilst waiting for his toast to pop. Glowing coils within illuminated the underside of cabinets above. He warmed his hands in the rising hot air, leaning forwards to rest his forehead against the upper cupboards.
Plain toast wasn't exactly exciting, but he was too hungry to care. There was no one around to stop him from adding toppings but he knew from experience that his stomach would reject anything too rich until he got used to eating properly again. Even butter was off the list. Which, come to think of it, was an odd thing to have during the apocalypse. Also, fresh eggs. Was there a farm on one of the lower levels?
His senses were still heightened. His subconscious anticipated danger at every turn, finding threats in safe spaces. So, when he became aware of quiet footsteps pattering in the hallway, he whirled around as if he'd been stabbed in the back, heart hammering.
"Uh, John?" Theo whispered, blinking owlishly in the dim light. He was in the same green t-shirt that Alan had been wearing on the morning Scott had run out. His hair was a bird's nest, clothes rumpled from sleep, unease stamped across his features.
Scott exhaled in a rush.
"Sorry, Theo. Just me. John's…" He didn't have a clue where his brother had disappeared to. "…not here."
"Oh, hey. Sorry, Scott. I didn't mean to sneak up on you." Theo worried his hands in the hem of his shirt. "Actually, you might be able to help. If that's cool? Or if Virgil's around, then that works too. I just need one of you guys."
Scott took a bite of toast, leaning against the counter as he gestured for Theo to continue.
"I can't guarantee that I'll have a solution, but I can give it my best shot. What's up?"
"Um…" Theo twisted his hands together, rocking back-and-forth on his heels. "I, uh… Alan's-having-a-panic-attack-in-the-bathroom-and-he-broke-the-mirror-and-I-don't-know-what-to-do-because-I-tried-to-help-but-then-he-locked-the-door-and-"
"Woah, okay, slow down a second, bud. I didn't catch a word of that." Scott stuffed the remaining quarter of his toast into his mouth. "Alan's done what?"
Theo took a deep breath and repeated, slower, "Alan started kinda spiralling and I think he's having a panic attack but he's locked the door so I figured I should get someone. Also, I'm like ninety percent sure he's broken his hand again."
Again?
What the fuck did I miss?
It was as if every neuron fired at once. If Scott hadn't been wide awake before, then he sure as hell was now. Worrying about Alan was nothing new, but the sudden sharpness of pure fear was a lightning bolt. Toast turned to ash in his mouth. He shook off the daze and pushed himself away from the counter.
Theo's worried eyes tracked his movements.
"Should I get Virgil? John told me not to worry you, but, like, Alan's majorly freaking out. I tried to calm him down because that's worked a few times in the past week but then he locked me out and he wouldn't even let Finch through the door, and I heard glass break and-"
"Okay, Theo?" Scott gripped the kid's shoulders. "Take a breath. You did the right thing coming to get me."
"I mean, technically I was trying to find John," Theo confessed, rubbing the back of his neck, "But thanks." He ducked his head to avoid Scott's searching look. "I'm really worried about Alan."
The clock ticked over to oh-two-fifteen. Scott absently wondered where the hell John could be at such a time of night – morning? – but dismissed the thought because he had other priorities right now.
Theo led the way to a door with a piece of paper stapled to the centre displaying a hastily sketched rocket. It was propped open, revealing a slither of darkness. He slipped through the gap without hesitation as if this were a route he had taken many times over the past weeks.
Scott spared a second to be hopelessly grateful for the kid's presence – even if Alan hadn't been confiding in any of his brothers, at least he'd had a friend around to save him from totally isolating himself, and Theo gave the impression that he wasn't the sort of person to be deterred easily, even if Alan had been withdrawn and unsociable.
The room was something else and Scott wasn't talking about the sterile décor. He'd always nagged Alan about keeping his bedroom tidy at home, but it had never been as bad as this. The only time it had ever come remotely close was when he'd barricaded himself in there after the October Incident.
The atmosphere was oppressive, cloying, a physical weight which slammed down on Scott's shoulders as soon as he stepped inside. If places could absorb emotional energy, then this sure had. Negativity practically seeped out of the walls. It was dark, not just literally but in every other sense too.
Scott fumbled to switch on the lamp perched on a chest of drawers and recoiled at the sight. The floor was completely buried beneath crumpled clothes, blankets, general trash and balled-up drawings. Ink stained the carpet. Several plates were growing fur coats amid the rubble. A glass had shattered so that shards glistened like tears in the pile. The entire place smelt stale and sad.
"Uh, yeah." Theo's voice jolted Scott out of his head. "It's kind of a mess in here. I tried to clear up, but Alan told me to leave it. Which is kind of a health hazard given he sleeps on the floor, but hey."
Scott silently wished he'd put on a pair of shoes. He picked a path through the wreckage to reach the closed en-suite door. Theo watched him from the main doorway, silhouetted against the corridor, bathed in light as opposed to Alan's new state of constant darkness. Grief raised its ugly head in Scott's chest, a dangerous feeling but one to be expected. He turned back to Theo momentarily.
"Do me a favour? See if you can get a hold of John, tell him to come back from wherever he's vanished to. Give him a basic rundown of the situation, he won't argue. Then get some sleep yourself, Theo. You've done a great job and we'll take it from here. Try not to worry, okay?"
Theo wavered, clearly reluctant to leave without seeing with his own eyes that Alan was alright. Logic won out – Alan wasn't going to open the door if there was an audience – so he backtracked into the hallway. He nudged the door shut with his heel. The latch click sounded oddly ominous.
Scott cast a final glance over the room. The depressive pit made his own grey feelings stir and he silently wished for John to hurry up. Alan needed him and so he wouldn't walk away, but he was trying to be better at admitting to himself when a situation wasn't good for him and the entire space was a trigger, especially the broken glass on the carpet. Phantom pain spread across his hands.
Movement stirred amongst the tangled heap of duvet on the bed. Finch raised her head, ears pricked, tail thumping as she recognised Scott. He was willing to bet that she hadn't left Alan's side once. It raised several concerning questions as to who had actually been eating off those plates on the floor, because Alan wouldn't let Finch go hungry, but did that mean he'd been eating also?
God, Scott hoped so, but he knew too well how guilt and grief could steal an appetite and while he wasn't exactly sure what the situation was with Gordon, he had put together enough puzzle pieces to guess that Alan had instigated the incident. Accidental or otherwise, hurting his brother had to be tearing the kid up inside.
Scott only wished he hadn't been so lost in his own head to have let Alan reach such a state. He'd been trapped in his own spiral and the problem with falling apart was that there was very little room left to think of the impacts on other people. Why are you trying to leave me too, Alan had asked over two months ago now and Scott felt like a piece of shit because he'd actively wanted to do just that. Pain had blinded him to everything bright and worth living for. He wasn't going to let Alan go down the same path.
So.
He knocked cautiously on the door. There was no movement within. Not even any hastily stifled cries. Just eerie silence which kicked his heartrate into the realms of a mid-rescue crisis. He knocked again, then let his head fall against the door with a thud.
"Alan," he called softly, wondering how they always ended up here – on opposing sides of a locked door when the real barrier was always grief. "Look, you don't have to open the door. I just need to know that you can hear me."
There was a long, painful silence.
Scott fought the urge to smack his head against the door again. All he wanted was to hold his kid. He couldn't help but feel like maybe he'd forsaken that right when he'd voiced the desire to want out. He'd just wanted the pain to stop. He hadn't been in the headspace to consider what that actually meant. Maybe John had had a point – your life doesn't entirely belong to you. He didn't know, but what he did understand was very simple – Alan was upset and that was wrong.
The knock on the other side of the door was so faint that Scott almost believed he'd misheard. He glanced over at Finch for confirmation. Her ears pricked, head tilted as if to say, well, go on then, say something.
He knocked back. There came another soft thud from the other side.
He could have broken down sobbing with relief right there and then. Instead, he slid to sit with his back to the door, tucking his feet out of range of the broken glass shards. When John turned up, he'd probably fly into a panic – or as close to panic as John ever got. He was still reluctant to grant Scott access to a shaving kit for god's sake.
"Scott." Alan's whisper was broken. There came a strange scuffle which suggested he'd moved to sit against the door too. Scott pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from making a sound. "Is this real?"
Scott couldn't have felt colder if he'd been doused in icy water.
He swallowed, forcing his voice to remain level as he replied, "Yeah, Allie. This is real. I'm here. It took me a while and I'm sorry for that, but I'm here now."
There was another long silence. Scott studied the tiny flecks of white fur around Finch's nose. Her eyes were liquid gold in the reflected glow of the lamp. He exhaled in a rush. The room looked how he had been feeling as of late – overwhelming, everything in chaos, stacked up to tipping point, sharp-edged danger with fatal potentiality hidden beneath soft layers.
"Hey," he murmured, closing his eyes to let the emotion wash over him rather than squashing it down to come back twice as strong later on. "How d'you feel about opening this door?"
Alan tipped his head back against said door with a soft thud. "Um. Not good."
"Okay. Is it cool if you talk it through with me?"
Another pause.
"I guess."
Scott sighed. "It's scary, huh?" The silence was confirmation. "Yeah, I get that."
"You don't. Not like this." Fabric rustled as Alan drew his knees up to his chest. "If I open the door, I've got to deal with the consequences. Everything on the other side becomes real. Right now, it's… Maybe it's not real. I don't know. What if you're not really here? What if Gordon's…?"
"So… a little like staying in bed to avoid starting the day, right? Your, uh, Schrodinger's cat theory again – everything bad simultaneously has and hasn't happened so you can find comfort in the possibility of the latter."
Scott frowned as the pause dragged on.
"Alan?"
"Y-yeah. That's… exactly like that."
"And I get it. Life is difficult and painful, especially these days. But the thing is, Alan – you can't hide forever. The world's gonna keep on turning regardless because it doesn't care. But everyone who does care about you? We miss you. You might not have to face the bad moments, but you won't get to experience any of the great times either. Life doesn't come with a trial run. This is it. And maybe the fear will always be a part of you, but that's okay, as long as you don't let it control you."
"Scott?"
"Yeah?"
"What if I don't know how to overcome the fear? What if this it? What if I don't how to change?"
"Then you ask for help. You don't try to go it alone because why would you? You don't have to. It's hard admitting when you need a hand, but it's not impossible. I- Mom had this favourite quote which she used to say - asking for help isn't giving up, it's refusing to give up. I'm pretty bad at remembering that, but the good news is that it's never too late to change.
Whoever you want to be, you get to choose to be that person every day. Maybe yesterday sucked, but tomorrow might be better. It's another Schrodinger's cat scenario – tomorrow might be difficult, but it could be amazing and if you focus on that, then maybe it won't seem as scary anymore. Look, the point is – don't hide away. It doesn't fix anything. All it does is take away possibilities and not just painful ones but incredible ones too."
The door opened. Scott was not expecting it and proceeded to crash backwards. He squinted up at his little brother, standing over him with a tear-stained face but a distinctly determined gleam in those blue eyes.
"I messed up," Alan confessed, cradling his fist to his chest. "Not just- I mean, yeah, punching the mirror was a terrible idea and it hurts so bad, but also… I hurt Gordon. I hurt him really badly. And there's a chance that it's permanent and I don't know what I do with that. How do you move forward if your mistakes follow you into every new day?"
Scott pushed himself upright, leaning against the doorframe as he considered the question. Alan wrapped his arms around himself, face shadowed with exhaustion, shirt stained by blood from his injured hand.
"To tell you the truth," Scott admitted after a moment, "I don't know. Life's a learning curve, kid, and I'm still figuring out the answers. Maybe this is one we could work out together. What d'you say?"
Alan ducked his head.
"Okay," he mumbled, voice tiny.
Scott reached out and raised Alan's chin with two fingers. "Look at me for a second." Alan reluctantly glanced up, jaw clenched against the threat of more tears. "I love you."
Alan's expression crumpled. "I was going to kill the Hood. He's still a human. I would have murdered an actual, living person."
"Eh." Scott shrugged. "Nobody's perfect."
Alan stared at him incredulously before a smile slowly dawned. Scott grinned at him.
It was as if the sun had defeated the clouds. Alan swatted Scott's shoulder, unable to fight back sniggers. The entire situation suddenly seemed so ridiculous that Scott couldn't help but laugh too. He wrapped an arm around his kid and pulled him into a fierce hug, burying his face in Alan's hair for a moment, uncaring about the grease and tangles. Alan's grip threatened to crack ribs before he winced.
Scott released him in an instant. "What's wrong?"
"Uh…" Alan lifted his hand, tilting his head towards the shattered mirror sheepishly. "Kinda forgot about that for a moment. I think I might have broken my hand again."
"Again?"
"Well, I broke it on the Hood's face the first time. I cracked two knuckles."
Scott repressed a strangled sound of exasperation/terror. He really did not want to consider all the new information he'd just been gifted. He kept an arm around Alan's shoulders and guided him towards the doorway.
"C'mon, Al. Let's fix up that hand before John gets back and yells at us both."
Out of all their designated rooms, the kitchen had taken on the homeliest qualities and so they naturally gravitated towards it. A spare blanket was flung over the back of a chair. One of the cupboards stood partly ajar where Theo had stolen a midnight snack before finally retreating to bed. The smell of freshly toasted bread still hung in the air. Underfloor heating warmed tiles.
Scott left the overhead lights off but switched on the undercabinet LEDs, dimmed to a warm glow which blanketed the room in gold. It reminded him of candlelight – kind to overwhelmed senses. It was the sort of soft light which invited a sense of safety and he swore a little of the tension bled from his shoulders as soon as he stepped over the threshold.
The holo-projector was blinking with an unread notification. They both ignored it. Alan hopped up to sit on the tabletop, lifting his feet onto a chair to lean his elbows against his knees. The position was curled inwards, a protective stance which suggested his mind was running wild with anxiety again.
Scott tugged the blanket off the chair and draped it around Alan's shoulders as he stepped past to access the fridge – which was still such a weird thing to be using again after months of long-life rations and no fresh produce. He'd been aiming for casual, but he couldn't quite keep the protectiveness out of his actions. It was obvious in the way that he tucked the blanket tightly around Alan, briefly tousling the kid's hair.
Alan's tiny smile was hopelessly fond. It faded far too soon. He rested his chin in one hand with a sigh. Maybe it was simply a result of the baggy hoodie and too-long PJ pants, but he seemed small. His injured hand was cradled in his lap, fingers curled to spread claw-like shadows over the floor. His gaze burned Scott's back, refusing to look away for even a second now that he finally had his brother back in his sights.
Why was it, Scott wondered, that whenever there was so much to say, no one ever had any words? He didn't know how to start any of the conversations that they needed to have. He resorted to basic care instead.
"Have you eaten?"
Alan shook his head. He didn't volunteer when his last meal had been. Scott had to trust that Virgil had been keeping an eye on that. Alan was scrawny enough as it was these days – they could do without anxiety stealing any more of his appetite. The thought inspired another sense of grief because Alan had once been the one to fight Scott for the final slice of apple pie and had been known to practically inhale two-thirds of a dish meant to feed five adults. Now, he looked miserable at the suggestion of mere bread.
Scott tossed two slices into the toaster regardless. "C'mon. Any toppings?"
Another mute shrug.
Okay. Improvisation time. There was a selection of fruit at the back of the fridge – nope, never gonna be over that one, still weird – which he sliced up before hunting through the cupboard for honey.
Alan perked up a little, eyes bright with curiosity although still painful to look at thanks to the bloodshot aftermath of panic. He stretched out his legs until his feet knocked the back of the chair. There was a suspicious rusty stain on the underside of one of his socks.
"Did you step in glass?" Scott queried.
Alan lifted his foot to examine it.
"Nope. It's from when my hand was bleeding the, uh…" He dropped his gaze to the floor to avoid eye contact. "…First time."
The first time, Scott echoed silently, trying not to freak out. Well, freak out too much. He flattened his hands against the countertop for a moment and copied the breathing techniques which Virgil had encouraged him to try recently. The cutting board was sticky from the fruit, so he had to rinse his hands in the sink, successfully drowning out the patter of feet until he turned around and Alan was right there.
Once upon a time, Scott would have had better control over his reflexes. Not anymore. Hyperawareness, excessive anxiety and every other side effect of the apocalypse meant that he physically jolted away from his youngest brother.
It would have been funny had it not been so tragic. Or, you know, if he hadn't been trying to get his heartrate under control. The only mercy was that his protective instincts overrode the primal impulse to throw a fist first and double-check later. Instead, he gripped onto the counter behind him and tried to remember how to breathe.
Alan stared at him with wide, wide eyes. He backed up a pace, hands aloft in surrender. Shock had momentarily stolen his voice, but he swallowed and forced out a cracked whisper of, "Sorry."
Scott's instinct was to apologise himself, only it hadn't exactly been his fault. It certainly hadn't been Alan's either. It was a trauma response and Virgil had been getting on his case about not saying sorry for reactions he couldn't control. It was all part of the trying to be better thing, so that he didn't end up back on the floor wanting to erase himself from existence. So. No apologies from either of them thank-you-very-much.
"Hey, quit that." He caught Alan's shoulder and tugged him closer. "Wipe that guilty look off your face. You did nothing wrong. I'm just… jumpy, let's say that. Maybe don't sneak up on me for a while, that's all. Kayo's taught you a little too well."
Alan usually melted into hugs. The kid thrived off physical affection. He remained noticeably tense, unwilling to lean into Scott's side, shoulders rigid under his brother's arm.
Scott tried not to take it personally without much success. It stung. He was very aware that he'd been absent when it seemed like Alan had needed him most. Logic stated that this wasn't his fault, but years of self-loathing whispered otherwise. He returned his focus to chopping fruit in a feeble attempt to distract himself.
Alan slipped away, fumbling to reach a glass from the higher shelf to give himself an excuse to avoid talking. Scott bit back a comment as he watched Alan rise onto tiptoes to grab it, mercifully retrieving it without incident. The rush of running water filled the silence. Alan drained the glass, refilled it, then retreated back to his perch on the table. His hand looked raw and angry. Scott tried to gauge the damage without staring, sensing that Alan wasn't ready to accept an offer of help yet.
Fruit, honey and toast. All reasonably bland, soft enough to be kind to a stomach which hadn't received many nutrients as of late. Each had different benefits. Each was now a luxury. Scott didn't want to consider how any of it had come into the bunker's possession. There had to be some sort of production level.
Maybe he'd scout it out when he was feeling up to it although it was beginning to feel as though he'd never leave their quarters again. Wandering between their rooms was bad enough. Every shadow seemed to leap out at him. Every dust mite was a threat. Even now, the toaster popping sent his heartrate skyrocketing.
"This stuff should not work together," Alan mused quietly, stacking fruit slices on top of honey-lathered toast, "But it really does."
Scott propped himself against the counter. "Good?"
Alan licked honey off the crust before it could drip onto the table.
"Good," he confirmed, polishing off the rest in triple-quick time. He glanced down at the empty plate with a frown, as if his own hunger had taken him by surprise. There was a little bit more colour back in his face, less ghostly pale, more human. He wiped sticky fingers against his PJ pants before Scott could protest or throw him a damp cloth. "So."
Ah.
Scott ran a cloth under the tap, wrung it out, then set about wiping down the counter. It was mainly to occupy his hands while he could get his thoughts in order.
"So," he echoed casually, unable to turn around and face Alan. Coward whispered the voice in his head. He tried not to flinch.
"Scott," Alan murmured.
Oh, shit. His hands were trembling. Get it together, Scotty.
"Yeah?"
"Do you ever… no, never mind. It's dumb."
Alan tried to curl his hands into fists and winced. He ducked his head with a sigh, tangling his good hand in his hair.
"I dunno. I just- Do you ever scare yourself? Like, you take a step back and realise exactly what you were prepared to do, and it goes against everything you're supposed to be and it's just… scary." He exhaled in a rush. "Especially when you don't really regret it."
"Alan…"
"No, no, I mean, I regret what happened. Obviously. It was my fault and it's even worse because I would totally- I don't know."
Alan crushed toast crumbs under his thumb. His eyes seemed a darker shade of blue than usual.
"The Hood was talking about you- And I just… I wanted him to hurt, Scott. I wanted him to feel how I did – all the pain and grief and fear he's put all of us through over the years. And he said that you- And it was like something in me just broke. I didn't want to stop. I wouldn't have done. But Gordon got hurt… and the worst part is that if I had the Hood in front of me, I'd probably try to smash his face in again, because I don't regret that. So. Yeah. There's this anger and I can't rid of it, but I know… I know I'm not meant to be like this. I'm supposed to be better but I'm not and it scares me because what if…"
He took a deep breath and finally mustered the courage to meet Scott's gaze.
"What if I'm bad now?"
Too many years ago now, Scott had been rescued from Hell on Earth only to realise that the experience had changed him, that maybe he'd shattered at some point and left all the best parts of himself behind. He'd looked in the mirror and been unable to see anything other than the elements which had enabled him to survive. He had hated them because he hadn't understood why he'd lived when others – his wingman, for Chrissake – hadn't and the guilt had nearly eaten him alive.
But the thing was – there was no reason to feel guilty for being alive. Equally, there was no guilt in feeling. Emotions were as uncontrollable as waves in the ocean and so how could anyone ever be blamed for how they felt? Acting upon them was a trickier, grey area, but that wasn't the point.
"Alan," Scott said, "I'm gonna be honest with you about a few things. For a start, very few people are purely good or bad. That's okay. As long as you're trying, it's okay. Now, I'm going to take a wild guess here and say that all the anger you're feeling? It's coming from a place of fear. Believe me, I get that. It's something I struggle with too and for a long time I thought it meant there was something wrong with me. Emotions are complicated. They can get confused. It's easy to mistake one thing for another, anger for fear and so on."
Alan glared at the blood smeared across his knuckles. "Isn't it about intentions, though? I had bad intentions. I was going to kill him. I still kinda wish I had done."
"Hmm."
"What?"
"I don't think so. I think you were scared of losing anyone else and lashed out to stop it happening again. And I also think, if it came down to the wire, you wouldn't have gone through with it."
Alan was quiet for a moment.
"Maybe." He shrugged. "Maybe not. I don't know. Honestly, the idea of actually killing someone makes me feel sick, but then when I think of the Hood I get so angry and oh my god, you're right, it's 'cos I'm scared, isn't it?"
Scott hid a fond smile.
"I don't know what I would have done," Alan admitted, twisting a hoodie drawstring around his thumb. "If Gordon hadn't stopped me… I genuinely don't know. I think maybe I would have stopped at the last second but then again… Either way, I hurt Gordon. I've hurt him so, so badly and- He doesn't even blame me. How can he not blame me? I might've caused permanent damage but he's adamant that it's not my fault. Says it was an accident. But even in accidents there are still people at fault and that's me."
"I'm going to say something very hypocritical now, so brace yourself."
"Oh, yay."
"Blaming yourself doesn't fix anything. It won't change the past. All it'll do is cause more pain because it'll hurt you."
Scott leant against the table at Alan's side, voice soft as he continued,
"Being a good person is an everyday choice, Allie. And it comes a lot easier to some than others. But in answer to your question, no, you are not bad now. You're human, kid. Life is complicated and sometimes we make wrong decisions and people get hurt as a consequence but there's always tomorrow. We try our best and some days that looks as simple as just breathing, other days it's as massive as saving lives. The world doesn't stop turning when you make a mistake."
"It was a really bad mistake, Scotty."
"Well, that's okay. It just means you might need to ask for some help."
Alan wiped his good hand across shiny eyes.
"Asking for help isn't giving up," he murmured.
"-It's refusing to give up," Scott finished. For a brief moment, he swore he could hear their mom's voice.
Alan sniffed. "I, uh…" He held out his injured hand. "I could do with some help."
"C'mon, rocket-kid." Scott murmured, tousling Alan's hair. "Let's get you fixed up."
There was a first-aid kit stored in the main bathroom cabinet on the top shelf underneath a bottle of painkillers and a half-empty box of band-aids. Someone had already opened it, but the contents remained mostly untouched. Scott carried it back to the kitchen where Alan hadn't moved from his perch on the table. He hesitated in the doorway for a brief moment to just look.
Alan had kicked the chair aside to swing his legs. His injured hand was cradled close to his chest. Finch stared up at him with worried eyes. She nosed his knees with a soft whine, and he ruffled her fur absently. Consoled by affection, she returned her attention to the stray toast crumbs which had fallen onto the floor.
Alan lifted his feet out of the way to let her chase the final crust underneath the table. In the warm light, he looked impossibly young. There was a tiny silver scar on his chin which he'd picked up at some point during the apocalypse, only noticeable because Scott was staring.
"Hey." Scott knocked on the doorframe to announce his presence. "I found the first-aid kit."
"Finally," Alan teased, fighting back a yawn. "Do we have any pain meds?"
"I'm sure there's something in here which can help."
Scott hooked a foot around the chair and pulled it closer to sit in front of his brother. It was strange to look up at Alan, but he was uncomfortably aware that the shakes were beginning to set in. Standing for much longer would push him so far past his limits that he'd end up undoing a lot of progress. He tipped the first-aid kit onto the table and rifled through the contents.
Alan watched with an unreadable wealth of emotion behind his eyes. He lifted his feet to sit criss-cross on the tabletop, fiddling with the too-long hems of his PJ pants. A soft sigh escaped him despite his attempts to hold it back. He held out his hand for inspection without needing to be asked, trying not to flinch as Scott cleaned those flayed knuckles.
"Sorry," Scott murmured distractedly, focussed on trying to be gentle.
Alan lifted one knee to rest his chin on top. "S 'okay."
Finch flopped over the tiles, head on her paws, eyes warm with love as she watched them. Her tail brushed stray flour from the grouting. The soft sound prompted cautious conversation, freeing them from the easy trap of silence.
"Can I ask about it?" Alan sought Scott's face for any hint of unease. "You can say no. I won't get upset. We don't have to talk yet."
Scott tipped a little antiseptic onto the cloth.
"You can ask. It's alright. I might not answer some questions, not because I'm treating you like a little kid but because I want to spare you from the details. Also, on a selfish note, I don't want you knowing because I don't want you to- You're my little brother, Alan. There are certain things I'm just not comfortable sharing with you. But that's not a reflection on you as a person, I promise."
Alan winced at the sting of antiseptic. "That's fair."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I get it."
Scott cleaned the final traces of blood. "Then ask away."
Early hours always brought a strange sense of openness. Silence was unguarded at this time of night. Unused to the lack of boundaries, Alan seemed a little lost. He chewed on his left thumbnail while he thought. Scott caught his wrist and gently tugged his hand back down.
"You'll make your thumb bleed if you keep doing that."
"Didn't realise I was doing it," Alan confessed. He studied his swollen knuckles without really seeing them. "Um. So. I know that there was an argument. I didn't hear most of what was said because John told us to leave while he dealt with it, but then when we came back you were gone and… We couldn't find you anywhere. It was- I…" He inhaled deeply. "Why did you go with the Hood? Like, I get he was manipulating you, but you went with him willingly at first, right? Why?"
There was no accusation in Alan's voice. Just tiredness and a hint of grief. Maybe even a little fear as he awaited an answer.
"Sometimes," Scott began after a moment's thought, "People make bad decisions because it's easier. Pain is, uh… familiar, which makes it less scary than asking for help. But also… I wasn't in a headspace where I felt like I could reach out. Asking for help takes a lot of bravery, Al. I wasn't ready to take that step. So, I went with the Hood because he's a known quantity."
Alan shook his head. "But that doesn't make sense. You're, like, crazy brave. You're hardly scared of anything."
"I make it seem that way, huh?" Scott reached for the roll of bandages. "Truth is, I'm scared of lots of things, some more than others. I just try not to let it stop me. Fear makes things harder, but it doesn't make them impossible."
Alan considered this.
"Back at the GDF bunker, when you got…" He fished for the right word. "…really sad. It happened again, didn't it? It got bad, right?"
"Yeah," Scott admitted, staring intently at the bandage to avoid meeting Alan's gaze. "It got bad."
"Really bad?"
"It's been pretty rough, yes."
"Scott?"
Scott busied himself with tying off the bandage. He was out of excuses. He risked a glance up. Alan's eyes were bright with emotion. He caught Scott's wrist, subconsciously curling his fingers to count his brother's pulse. He glanced away, unable to look at Scott as he asked in a tiny voice,
"Why don't you like yourself?"
Scott found himself utterly speechless.
"It's just," Alan continued in a rush, "I don't understand how you can look at the rest of us and see all of these good qualities but then you can't recognise those same traits in yourself. I mean, you're frickin' amazing, Scotty. You're… you're like… my hero or something and I don't get how you can't see that. I don't know, it just kinda hurts to see someone you love hate himself, you know?"
Finch lifted her chin from her paws as if she could understand every word.
"I don't hate myself," Scott replied after a pause.
Alan traced the network of scars which formed a riverbed across Scott's knuckles.
"Really? Because you kind of act like someone who does."
"It's not that. Not exactly." Scott propped his elbows on the table with a sigh. "It's more… I started thinking a certain way a very long time ago and it became a habit. I know it's not healthy. I've tried- I'm trying to be better for all of you."
"Maybe that's the problem," Alan suggested quietly. "Maybe you shouldn't be trying for us. Maybe you should just be trying for yourself. We'll love you regardless."
Scott's breath caught in his throat. "Maybe."
"I'm going to sound really selfish now." Alan ducked his head. "Like, I get how selfish this is gonna sound because this situation isn't about me. I want you to get better because you deserve to, not because you're doing it for me. But also… You can't keep doing this. You can't keep putting yourself in danger unnecessarily."
His voice became a whisper.
"It's not fair. I keep almost losing you and I can't go through it again. I can't lose another parent. And I thought maybe you got that? That morning when we talked after the water tower? I thought you finally understood."
"I did."
Scott reached to grip Alan's shoulder.
"Alan, I promise you, I listened, but it's not that simple. It's like taking a hit out on rescue, you know? Progress isn't linear. Sometimes I get knocked back and this time it kicked me down so far that it seemed – it still sort of seems – like it undid any progress I ever made. It's this horrible, dark place which I pray you'll never experience. Your mind becomes a trap. Everything good is swallowed up, hidden somewhere out of reach, so wherever you turn, all you can see is negativity. So, believe me, I did listen, and I did get it, but when I got into that headspace…"
"There was no room for anything good."
"Exactly."
Alan's gaze fell to Scott's hand on his shoulder. "And now? Is it any better?"
"A little."
Scott released Alan's shoulder and sat back in the chair.
"Easier," he clarified. "I think that's a more accurate description. It's not better yet, but it is easier and when it starts getting easier… that's how you know you've begun to heal."
Alan slid off the table and fell into Scott's arms. The chair tipped dangerously under their combined weight as Alan buried his face in the crook of Scott's neck, clinging on tightly enough that Scott partly lost his ability to breathe. He cupped Alan's head, tangling his fingers in the kid's knotted hair, and closed his eyes against the sheer wave of affection which welled up in place of the hollow sadness which had resided in his heart for so long now.
"I thought you were dead, Dad," Alan choked out, voice rough with tears. "I saw you there and Virgil screamed, and I thought- I thought I lost you too and we were too late and- Never scare me like that again, or I'll- I'll… Just don't do it again, okay?"
"I'm still here, Allie," Scott whispered, hugging him fiercely. "I'm…"
The realisation struck him like the sun finally fighting through the clouds to grace the sky and it was wonderous and warm and worth holding onto.
"I'm still here."
