Recovery didn't follow a neat set of stages. There was no roadmap – not for physical injuries nor for mental health. Some days were worse than others – long, painful things which seem to drag on forever. Scott was getting better at recognising his own limits, just as Gordon was improving in physical therapy. They had both been through the process before, but this time was different.

Alan remained withdrawn. He was no longer locking himself away, but the lack of physical barricade didn't stop him from closing himself off. No one could get through to him – not even John. There was a storm in his eyes now which threatened to overwhelm him. He was quieter, listless, drifting from day to day as if living were a chore. Other times he was snappy, giving into the anger which bubbled just below the surface like magma. He was hurting but refused to accept help and Scott didn't know what to do.

Alan wasn't just skulking around their quarters. He vanished for hours at a time. John had tried to follow him once but the kid was sneaky and Kayo had taught him a little too well. He returned from wherever he'd been in the early hours and slipped into Scott's room. If Scott was asleep, then Alan would crash on the floor, but if Scott was awake then the kid would crawl under the covers and curl up close, unspeaking, unmoving, as distant as the furthest stars despite being right in front of him.

On the upside, Gordon's prognosis was looking rosy. The medical ward was run by three people – a private practitioner, a plastic surgeon and an oncologist – although Virgil had unofficially joined their ranks too.

The private practitioner and the plastic surgeon were residents in their own rights, having paid their way in, but the oncologist, Hira, had been brought into the bunker alongside the Warrens, a multi-millionaire family who orbited around Noah Warren, a high-flying lawyer who had sold his soul for big bucks. Hira had been treating him for the past two years and without her continued care his outlook wouldn't have lasted beyond two months post Z-Day. Unlike the GDF's rule of full health or the door, nobody here cared provided you had money and that was the one thing of which the Warrens had no shortage.

Hira had experience with physical therapy and so helped construct a recovery programme for Gordon. She was also the one to figure out a new cocktail of meds for John, although they kept the reason for this demand under wraps. Hira seemed lovely but nearly everyone in the end-times were only out for themselves and so Scott was reluctant to trust her. Call it paranoia, but he'd rather be safe than sorry.

Still, they spent a lot of time around her over the next few weeks and Gordon warmed to her quickly, helped by the fact she never took it personally when frustration got the better of him during PT sessions, ending in angry outbursts and then, inevitably, tears, at which point Virgil would take over while Hira made a quiet retreat. She always came back the next day and never held it against Gordon. If his heart hadn't been elsewhere, it might even have led somewhere.

Life folded itself into a routine of sorts. Scott had taken up running again – albeit on treadmills on the gym level – and the regular exercise had the added bonus of regulating his headspace as well as improving his physical shape. He spent mornings with Gordon, sometimes participating with the PT sessions, then the afternoon exploring the rest of the bunker or helping John with his 'investigation'.

John was steadily gaining intel on rotters, radios and reports of GDF activity north of the border. His aim was to improve signals sufficiently to regain a connection with EOS, but so far she remained out of contact.

On the upside, they were definitely making progress in their understanding of the hivemind. There were certain elements which John refused to talk about – Scott was willing to bet that the Hood's name featured – but overall they had a renewed sense of optimism which was refreshing. Summer was just around the corner and with it came the promise of hope. There hadn't even been any nukes dropped in the past two months.

Only, you know, there was the part where rotter activity was reaching all new highs, but no one wanted to talk about that. Scott got a glimpse at security camera feeds from outside the electric fences and learnt that the creatures were gathering en-mass around the compound. Combined with radiation in the south, it kept any new supplies from reaching the bunker.

It would become a serious problem sooner or later, but no one seemed concerned yet and Scott had bigger problems on his hands. Namely, his own link to the hivemind, not to mention Alan's spiralling mental health. Just as Scott's own headspace was on the rise, his kid's seemed to be plummeting and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He couldn't even stage an intervention because what was there to say? Alan hadn't technically done anything wrong.

Scott tried asking Jasmin and Theo about it. Theo looked pained and claimed that he felt uncomfortable betraying Alan's trust. Jasmin had no such qualms and informed Scott that his youngest brother was trying to go vigilante – standing up for the staff.

Ah yes, the staff. Much like the private satellite had employees, so did the bunker. Many of them had been with families for years but others had simply been selected by algorithms and recruited with the promise of obnoxiously large paychecks. There was a distinct class system in the bunker which Scott was incredibly uncomfortable with and apparently Alan shared this sentiment. He wasn't expecting just how far his youngest brother would take it until there was a knock on the door of their quarters.

Scott had been about to take a shower. He'd only been back from the gym for five minutes and was still dressed in a grey shirt stained by sweat. He flung open the door and didn't curb the annoyance in his voice as he snapped, "Can I help you?"

The security guard folded their arms. "Are you Scott Tracy?"

"Last time I checked, yeah."

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there's been an… altercation. We need you to collect Alan."

Scott repressed a groan. "What's he done?"

"Verbally assaulted another resident."

"Verbally… What?"

"I believe he called Vivian Blackwell an 'out-of-touch, elitist bitch'." The security guard coughed. "To quote."

Scott had a physical struggle not to laugh. "I'll be right with you. Let me just grab a clean shirt."


The detainment zone was located on the same floor as the bar which made sense given its primary function was to house drunken patrons until they sobered up. Today it was also used to hold a furious teenager. Alan resembled an angry cat, bristling as he paced back and forth across the room. A colourful bruise decorated his cheek, but there was a distinct lack of matching red knuckles.

Scott whirled around to face the security guard. "Who the fuck hit my kid?"

The guard floundered. "I…"

"Who hit him? He's a minor. You have the audacity to lock him up for running his mouth but let the other guy walk free? I want names. Now."

"I'm not at liberty to reveal that information."

"Listen buddy, you give me a name right this goddamn second, or I swear I'm gonna-"

"Well, I was going to request identification," a new voice remarked dryly, accompanied by premium leather loafers and a tailored suit, "But there's no need because the boy's clearly yours. That attitude must be genetic."

Scott looked the man up and down. "Are you the asshole who put that bruise on his face? Because I'd be happy to give you a matching mark."

The man's chuckle seemed genuine. "No, no. I just happened to be a bystander." He stuck out a hand. "Noah Warren. I founded-"

"I know who you are."

Noah's brows ticked upwards slightly. "Well, then. I would say that it's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Tracy, but we appear to have gotten off on the wrong foot."

Scott's gaze kept tracking back to that bruise flourishing across Alan's cheek.

"Yeah, it's a real delight, but what I'd really like to know is why you're here. Also, can someone let my kid out of that room? Jesus. He's saved the world more times than half of the idiots in this place can probably count, but you've got him locked up like a common criminal. Get him out of there."

The security guard glanced to Noah in question. He dipped his head in a brief nod. Scott tried not to visibly show his irritation at the assumption of Noah's greater authority. He stuffed the annoyance into a mental box and shoved it aside in favour of focussing on the real issue at hand. The guard barely had time to step back after unlocking the door before Scott barged through.

The room was small, square and shadowy - cold concrete walls and flooring lit by fluorescent tubes which highlighted suspicious stains. The sour stench of old vomit, alcohol and body odour had permeated the walls so that no amount of bleach could rid the place of the smell. The only furnishings were a wooden bench and a scruffy blanket that was more holes than fabric.

Alan had kicked the blanket into a corner and was now sitting on the bench. He was curled over his knees with his head buried in his hands, fingers tightened to painful claws in his hair. Poor lighting drained the colour from his skin, leaving him a blank canvas of faint scars and freckles.

Scott was struck by the unsettling thought that his youngest brother was fading away right in front of him. Any hint of irritation that he may have been harbouring evaporated instantly. He tossed a final furious glare over his shoulder at the security guard and marched across the room.

"Alan."

Alan glanced up, expression shifting from defensive to recognition. He scrambled to his feet and flung himself at Scott, clinging on with the sort of limpet tendencies usually reserved for post-nightmare comfort. He tucked his face into the crook of Scott's neck and didn't say anything for a long minute. His grip was almost painfully tight. If that weren't evidence enough, Scott could tell just how scared Alan had secretly been from his racing heartbeat, hammering as if he'd run a marathon.

"Sorry," Alan mumbled, voice cracking slightly. "I didn't mean to get you involved but then they threw me in here and kept asking where my parents were – they weren't impressed when I suggested using a Ouija board – so I told them to call you." He stepped back, ducking his gaze to his shoes. "Are you, um, are you mad?"

"I'm not exactly happy," Scott admitted, "But this is hardly the first time I've bailed a brother out of trouble. I'm angrier with whoever put that bruise on your face. Besides, I'd like to hear your side of the story before I make any judgements."

Alan dragged the back of his hand across his nose with a damp sniff. "I was just trying to stand up for someone. I was trying to do the right thing."

"I know you were," Scott agreed gently, keeping an arm around Alan's shoulders as he guided the kid towards the door. "But maybe you could have found a better way. One which didn't end with you in a holding cell." He kept his exasperated sigh deliberately light. "Well, it was only a matter of time before I had to bail you out. I think it's a Tracy tradition at this point. Just don't go trying to beat Gordon's record."

He regretted mentioning Gordon's name as soon as he said it. Alan tensed up, hastily reconstructing his walls again and plastering a neutral expression on his face although his eyes were still bright with angry tears at the injustice of it all. Scott made a mental note to sit him down and find out the full story as soon as they got back to their quarters. But first he had a few hoops to jump through and one smarmy lawyer to be rid of.

He gritted his teeth and forced a smile. "Mister Warren. You're still here."

"Please, call me Noah." Noah cast a mildly appraising look at Alan. "Ah, the young troublemaker. You've made quite a name for yourself. Rumour has it that only two people in Vivian's life have ever told her no and you're one of them."

Alan straightened up. He didn't come close to Scott's height, but Noah wasn't particularly tall and as such Alan was able to stare him down without needing to look up.

"Who was the other?"

Noah frowned. "Pardon?"

"You said two people have told her no." Alan crossed his arms expectantly. "So? Who was the other?"

Noah's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Her husband," he replied, "Shortly after she asked him to come with her here. He found this place 'morally distasteful' to quote. Congratulations, son, you're now a walking legend amongst our ranks."

Scott's voice sounded icy even to his own ears. "Don't call him son."

"No offence intended." Noah held out a hand for Alan to shake. "Alan Tracy, isn't it? It's a pleasure to meet you without any violence involved. Speaking of which, I started recording when you stepped in to defend that young waitress, so I have footage of the guard who hit you. If you want it, that is. Just say the word and we'll have him expelled from the bunker. We don't tolerate violence towards residents down here."

"Only towards employees, right?" Alan retorted as quick as a whip. His eyes gleamed as he took Noah's proffered hand and shook it so firmly that the man winced. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't believe in the death penalty."

Noah visibly double-took. "I'm sorry?"

"Throwing the guard outta this bunker? Yeah, that's basically a death sentence. Ergo, death penalty, just because he got a little physical when it came to restraining me. And I was being a little shit, so… Point is, no one's going anywhere." Alan twisted to catch Scott's eye. "Are we done here?"

Scott tried to repress a proud smile.

"Yeah," he agreed with no small hint of smugness – hell yeah, my kid is freaking awesome – drawing himself up to his full height just to see the discomfort in Noah's eyes when he was forced to look up, something which the man very clearly didn't care for. "We're done here. Come on, Alan. Let's go."

Noah sidestepped to block their path. "Just a moment, Scott. Is it alright to call you that?"

"He prefers to be called Overlord," Alan deadpanned.

Scott fought back a laugh. "Scott is fine."

"Good, good." Noah's gaze was curious, passing slowly over them both as if seeking a clue or hint to some unsolved puzzle. His smile oozed false charisma. "I've actually been hoping that our paths would cross, Scott. I have a proposal for you."

Scott raised a brow. "I'm flattered, but you're not really my type. Also, we only just met."

Noah was hard-pressed to keep his irritation in check. Meanwhile, Alan had a visible struggle not to laugh, clasping his hands to his mouth as a snigger escaped.

"Here."

Noah retrieved an elegant business card from his blazer. There was a set of numbers scrawled on the back in blue ink – a floor level and room number. Scott tucked it into his pocket for later inspection.

"There are a group of us. A committee of sorts. We meet weekly to discuss information regarding the infection. Consider this your official invite." Noah stepped aside to let them past. "If you'd care to discuss the details, then I'll be waiting at the bar at nine tonight. Join me if you like. I'll be there for an hour."

Scott exchanged a glance with Alan.

"I'll consider it."

Noah nodded briskly. "Excellent. I hope to see you there."


The elevator ride back to their floor wasn't awkward as such, but something similar. Scott was itching to ask questions, but Alan was sort of twitchy, fidgeting constantly, unable to stay still for any time longer than ten seconds. He knitted his fingers together, cracking his knuckles, twisting the hem of his shirt around his thumb. He kept his gaze fixed on his sneakers as if they held the answer to every question. By the time the doors parted he practically bolted from the elevator, leaving Scott to trail behind him at a loss.

Their quarters were mostly empty. Alan was a live wire of anxious energy, shattering the stillness into tiny fractures. He yanked his filthy shirt over his head and tossed it in the vague direction of the clothes hamper which had taken up residence outside the main bathroom. Realisation struck an instant later and he froze.

Scott inhaled sharply, horror mixing with pure fury as he glimpsed the bruises littering his brother's ribs. Suddenly murder seemed a perfectly reasonable response. He forced himself to relax his fists, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for Alan, because the kid looked only one sudden move away from fleeing.

The bruises were the stained purple of angry thunderclouds, painful even to look at. It certainly explained his stiff movements and faint winces he'd been trying to conceal ever since Scott had set eyes on him in that holding cell.

Alan fumbled for a towel and clutched it to his chest to hide the bruises.

"Don't make a big deal out of it," he muttered, scuffing his feet slightly. "It's not that bad. It was an accident."

"An accident?"

Scott took a moment to steady his voice. Yelling at Alan was not his intention – it wasn't his brother he was angry with.

"Alan, you're hurt. I'm not gonna let that slide. We're going to sit down and you're going to tell me everything without leaving out any details. Noah said a security guard did this. Can you remember which one? Did you get a name?"

"Scott," Alan whined, still clinging to his towel as if he were some sort of maiden who'd been caught by surprise and was now trying to protect their modesty. "Jeez, why can't you just let this go?"

"Is that a serious question?"

Alan's shoulders slumped. "Not really."

He let the towel swing from his fingertips, suddenly seeming so defeated that Scott wanted to hug him and promise that everything would be okay, but Alan was not a little kid anymore and besides, false promises only ever brought more pain in the long run.

"Can I at least take a shower first?"

"Yeah," Scott sighed, reaching out to tousle Alan's hair, grimacing at the grease. "Have you eaten?"

Alan shrugged, which Scott took to mean no.

"I'll fix us some lunch while you shower. But then we're talking, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Alan."

"God, fine." Alan vanished into the bathroom, then ducked his head back around the frame, looking decidedly uncertain and perhaps a little self-conscious as he muttered, "Hey, uh, Scott? Thanks for coming to get me. I know I've been difficult recently. So, um, yeah. Thanks."

There were too many implications hidden beneath those words for Scott to even begin to consider unpacking them yet. He forced a tired smile.

"Anytime." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, biting back a sigh. "That's not something you ever have to thank me for. You know I'll always be there if you need me. It doesn't matter how much trouble you find yourself in. I've got your back, kiddo."

Alan's smile was faint but genuine.

"Don't call me kiddo," he replied – predictably – but his voice was soft with fondness in a way he hadn't allowed himself to show in nearly two weeks and, as Scott walked away, he liked to imagine that they both felt a little warmer.


Rations were beginning to grow depleted. The shares weren't as large. Scott had discovered that yes, there were production levels – including one dedicated entirely to livestock – but luxury goods had become sparse with the lack of supply runs. Taking the trucks wasn't an option while the infected surrounded the compound and as such there was no one to transport goods from the trains. He was counting down the days until someone – the Hood if he wanted to mention names although the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth – recalled that there was another perfectly good way of reaching the railyard sitting on a helipad with several highly experienced pilots in their midst.

Still, the lack of exotic spices and other such extravagances didn't bother him. He'd grown used to severe rations – sometimes not eating at all – and the bunker's luxuries still baffled him. Sometimes he found himself staring at the fridge's contents, overwhelmed by choice so that he ended up not picking anything until Virgil inevitably tracked him down and bullied him into eating a proper meal. But hey. That was life now.

Lunch was simple because his cooking skills still left much to be desired even with all the free time he now had on his hands – just sandwiches cut into rough triangles with the last of the apple juice to wash it down. Finch sat at his feet while he prepped plates, staring up at him with wide, expectant eyes until he tossed her a slice.

Alan wandered in wearing baggy clothes which wouldn't catch on sore skin. He stole Scott's abandoned hoodie from the back of a chair and yanked it over his head. A pained hiss escaped gritted teeth as the movement pulled at his ribs. He busied himself with trying to comb his damp curls into something tameable to avoid Scott's worried gaze.

"Stop that," he sighed, flopping into a chair and pillowing his chin on the tabletop. He cast Scott an exasperated stare. "Dude. Stop."

"Don't call me dude."

"Ugh." Alan buried his head in his arms. "Fine," he corrected, voice muffled by fabric, "Scott stop, then. Your whole…" He flapped a hand vaguely. "…worried smother-hen thing. I can practically sense you freaking out. It's just a few bruises. I've had way worse out on rescue."

"Alan, you've been hospitalised because of rescues in the past, so I'm not going to set the bar that low." Scott set the plate of sandwiches down on the table and flicked the kid's head. "Look alive. Food's up."

Alan batted Scott's hand away with a muted grumble. His eyes lit up at the sight of sandwiches, which he proceeded to inhale as if he hadn't eaten in days, with the exception of the crusts which he proclaimed to have a 'weird texture' and so were unceremoniously divided between Scott and Finch. The food returned some of the colour to his cheeks, just as the shower had loosened the tension in his shoulders. He lifted his feet onto his chair and sat back, running a thumb around the rim of his glass of apple juice thoughtfully.

Scott eyed the tender bruises where Alan's hoodie had ridden up and imagined all the various ways he could murder that guard. Alan might have a working moral compass, but Scott suspected that his own was malfunctioning because he wasn't entirely against the idea of tossing that guard out to fend for himself amongst the infected. As soon as he found out the guard's name, he'd pass it along to John because revenge plans were one of John's specialities. Evicting the guard would cause temporary pain but one of John's schemes would have the guy wishing he'd never even looked at Alan the wrong way.

"Are you plotting a murder?" Alan asked conversationally, as if remarking on something as mundane as the weather. He brushed the crumbs from his plate onto the floor for Finch to hoover up. "You look kinda murderous."

"Not at all, but hey, while we're on the subject – have you remembered that guard's name yet?"

"Nope." Alan dragged out the word. If he was trying to sound convincing, he wasn't doing a very good job of it. "Here's the short version of what happened – a stuck-up bitch drove a waitress to tears. I stuck up for her – the waitress, I mean, not Vivian, obviously - security got called and I quoted free speech and all that fun stuff. The guard didn't like some kid mouthing off at him, so I got, uh… put in time-out. The end."

"Uh huh," Scott replied slowly, noting the way Alan's fingers tightened around his glass, gaze flitting around the room to avoid making eye contact. "And the long version?"

Alan drained the rest of his apple juice to buy himself some time. He was drumming one of his hands against the side of the glass, very clearly reluctant to divulge any of the gritty details. He reached for Scott's empty plate, stacked it on top of his own, then slid off his chair to begin the washing up.

If Scott hadn't already known that something was wrong, then that would have tipped him off, because since when did Alan voluntarily clean up? The only place he'd ever kept in order had been Thunderbird 3. But now he was washing crumbs off plates which really didn't need such vigorous scrubbing. The rush of water gave him an excuse not to talk, pretending that he couldn't hear Scott above the noise. This continued for another five minutes until Scott lost his patience.

"You know-" He reached across to turn off the faucet. "-running from your problems won't fix anything."

"I'm not running from anything," Alan snapped, already on the defensive. He snatched a dry towel from the sideboard and twisted it into a ball of tension to occupy his hands. "I'm just… thinking. I'm allowed to think, aren't I?"

"No. I made thinking illegal, actually." Scott found himself treated to a sour stare. "Look, I just want to know what's going on with you. If you want space then that's fine, but you've got to tell me. I'm not a mind-reader."

Alan stared down at the splashed water over the tiles.

"It's not that," he admitted in a small voice.

Yeah, Scott could have predicted that one. He could still recall just how reluctant Alan had been to be left by himself after they'd talked that night so long ago now - conversations of morality and worth and the simplest fear of all – loss. Alan had started pulling away from everyone after it had become clear that Gordon wasn't going to walk away from that head injury with all his health points intact. Guilt forced people to seek out the opposite of comfort and so rather than surrounding himself with family, Alan had made a concerted effort to avoid them altogether.

"Why don't you want to talk to me?"

Alan began drying plates from the draining board. "I already told you what happened. The basic stuff, anyway."

"Sure," Scott agreed easily. "But that's not what I asked."

"I just…" Alan stilled, back turned so that his expression was hidden. "I don't want to worry you."

"I hate to break it you, but we're already well past that point."

"Worry you even more then."

It wasn't the first time Alan had tried to block him out. It wasn't the second or even the third. Yet, somehow, it still hurt. Scott reminded himself not to take it personally and then wrestled with the voice in the back of his head which whispered that if he was better, made the right choices and didn't screw everything up for once, then maybe Alan wouldn't be so reluctant to talk to him. Which was, of course, complete bullshit. After all, John and Virgil hadn't done anything wrong and Alan wasn't talking to them either.

"This place is just as bad as the GDF bunker, but in a different way," Alan said after a lengthy pause, sort of tentatively as if weighing the impact of each word. He toed Finch's haunches with one foot, earning a tail thud. "The GDF treated everyone like shit whereas here there's this massive divide. The staff are treated like they're meaningless, like they're not even human. And it's so, so wrong. So, I've been trying to understand how the system works."

"By going undercover?" Scott remarked wryly.

Alan either didn't register the sarcasm or chose to ignore it.

"Yeah, exactly! People don't know who I am unless I tell them. I was never in the press enough for anyone to know my face, so I can go pretty much unnoticed. I've been talking to the staff. Some of them have been working with families for years and stuck around outta loyalty. Others were swayed by insane paychecks. They got here before Z-Day hit the news. There's this idea that they'll eventually be able to work their way up, have their own private floor, be just as powerful as the residents."

"The American dream, huh?"

Scott was certain that it was an appeasement strategy – a rumour spread on purpose by the rich to keep their workforce from protesting against the conditions. He'd already had two arguments with self-absorbed assholes shouting at staff for the dwindling supplies, as if it were anyone's fault but their own for refusing to abide by stricter rationing policies. He couldn't imagine someone such as Noah Warren allowing people to climb the social ladder – mainly because there was no one else left to replace those lower rungs.

Alan evidently didn't buy it either.

"Yeah, it's such bullshit. The staff know it too, but they don't want to admit it to themselves. It's the only bit of hope they've got left to hold onto. They know they can't leave but the way they're living at the moment is soul-destroying. But they've got shares in the currency down here too – information. Like, so much info. It's crazy."

His voice was filled with fire, that particular blend of curiosity, righteousness and passion. He'd always loved mysteries – probably John's fault for reading him Sherlock Holmes from such a young age – and this wasn't just an unsolved case but an issue of justice and morals in action and hope: all things which technically International Rescue had also stood for. No wonder Alan was so invested.

"Remember the theory about zombie fight rings? There's a secret one on the lowest level. It doesn't show up on the options in the elevator, you have to request access and get a pass. Oh, and there's a tunnel network. It's been blocked off for weeks, but maps claim that it comes up somewhere along the coast of Lake Superior. I don't know how accurate that is, but-"

It was genuinely impressive just how much information Alan had collected. Apparently he hadn't just been moping around the bunker. He might have been wrestling with guilt and self-blame and a lack of concern for his own wellbeing, but at least he'd channelled it into something useful. He hadn't only picked up facts about the bunker's inhabitants, but knowledge regarding the rest of the world too and even a few new discoveries about the infected.

But mostly it was just wonderful to hear Alan sound like himself again. Scott could have listened to him ramble all day and not grown tired of it. He'd missed his little brother. Sure, Alan had been sort of present – at breakfast and vague moments when their paths crossed throughout the day or in the early hours of the morning/night – but it hadn't really been him.

"Rotters can only focus on one thing at a time," Alan was saying. "Oh, and the bandits? They were definitely working for the GDF, but only the corrupt version. There's rumours that the real GDF are gathering intel, preparing for some kinda strike? I don't know, the details are really vague about that one. Anyway, yeah, this place had a trade deal with bandits for a while – not just supplies, but rotters. Like, they were bringing them here for testing and entertainment and a whole bunch of creepy stuff. That stopped like two weeks before we got here and-"

It occurred to Scott that he should probably have made some comment about being responsible. Alan was making a name for himself as a troublemaker and that wouldn't sit well with everyone. Yet, hearing that his youngest brother had outwitted the so-called elite on multiple occasions, Scott couldn't feel anything other than sheer pride.

If Gordon had been considered a hero by the survival groups in the south, then Alan was fast becoming a similar figurehead for the staff. How was Scott supposed to do anything other than praise him for that? Also, wouldn't it be a little contradictory? He'd spent years encouraging Alan to stick up for his beliefs, to fight for the right thing, to channel that Tracy stubbornness into good. He could hardly turn around now and criticise the kid for doing exactly that.


"Are you going tonight?" Alan asked a little while later.

They'd finished the washing up, cleaned the kitchen until it was spotless, and were now lounging on the couch. A random sit-com was playing on TV, but neither of them were actually watching. Alan had found a weighted blanket from somewhere and they were huddled beneath it as if it were mid-winter.

Scott hadn't realised that he was feeling a little floaty again until suddenly he was grounded by the sensation. Alan leant against his side and propped his head on his brother's shoulder, staring intently at the screen to avoid eye contact while Scott considered the question.

It didn't require much contemplation. Scott had made up his mind as soon as Noah had handed him that business card.

"Yeah," he replied, "I'll meet him."

"Not alone."

"You're not coming with me to a bar, Al."

"Fine, then take John or Virgil or even Marisa."

"Maybe."

"Definitely." Alan elbowed him lightly. "Otherwise I'll have to go with you."

Despite the light-hearted tone, there was a distinctive edge to his voice. Not quite worry. Something similar but different. Scott couldn't quite distinguish it as any singular emotion. One thing was for certain – there was something else playing on Alan's mind. He lifted an arm along the back of the couch to let Alan list more heavily against his side.

Sit-com colours reflected across the glass coffee table. Alan watched them without truly seeing them. He was knitting his fingers in the hem of his stolen hoodie again.

"I, um…" He fished for the right phrase. "I kinda antagonised the security guard on purpose. Like, I knew it wasn't going to end well but I kept pushing all his buttons until he snapped, because I think maybe I sort of wanted him to get angry with me."

"That's still no excuse for him resorting to violence."

Alan grew very still. "You're not getting it, Scott."

Except Scott did get it. He got it all too well. The issue was that he couldn't accept it. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the strangled sensation sinking into his chest as familiar panic reared its head. Bad implications. He didn't want to think about them, not when it was Alan, no, no, no-

"I get it." It was a miracle that he managed to keep his voice steady. "I get it, Allie."

"Standing up for people? That feels good. But it's not enough. I still don't- I can't face Gordon. I mean, I physically can't look him in the eyes, and he knows, and it makes me feel even worse. So, I guess, maybe I, um, kind of wanted the guard to get violent. Just a little bit. Didn't make me feel any better though. But maybe that's the point. Maybe I don't get to feel better because Gordon doesn't. He's got to live with this. Because of me. And I can't fix it. I can't fix any of it. All I can do is stop some self-absorbed bitch from yelling at a waitress just because there weren't any stupid limes left."

Scott switched off the TV and stood up so suddenly that Alan was knocked off-balance. "C'mon."

"Where?" Alan complained, still trapped within the weighted blanket. "Scott-"

"Shoes on. Let's go."

"But-"

"You and Gordon are talking this out. This has dragged on long enough already. Both of you are going around in circles. He feels guilty, you feel guilty-"

Alan's eyes grew comically wide. "Why does he feel guilty? What the hell?"

"Ask him yourself." Scott caught hold of his brother's ankles and dragged him free of the blanket's confines. "I can sit here and try to talk this through with you, but it won't do any good because the only person you really need to speak to is Gordon. And I get that you're scared. It's not gonna be an easy conversation, but it's one that you need to have. No more running away from your problems."

"Run towards them instead?" Alan suggested with no small hint of sarcasm.

Scott shoved him towards the door. "If I say yes, you'll quote me on it later to get your own way about something. If I say no, you'll back out right now. So… no comment."

"Diplomatic. Penny would be proud."

"Get your ass moving, kid. No more stalling for time."

"I'm not."

"Alan."

"Jeez, okay, I'm going, I'm going."


Gordon's PT session didn't officially begin for another half-hour, but he'd headed down to the medical ward early to get a head start. Scott suspected Hira would have some choice words to say about that, but when Gordon had set his heart on a goal there was no dissuading him. He viewed limits as mere guidelines, although he was normally better at respecting his health. History had taught him not to push his body too far too soon, yet here he was, disobeying Hira's strict instructions to keep to the set programme, Gordon.

The medical ward had become less harshly clinical over the past month. There was a potted fern on a shelf and Gordon had stuck some of Virgil's sketches on the walls. Theo had painted a sunset as a get-well-soon gift and this had also taken up permanent residence in the recovery room. There was also a pink crochet blanket on one of the beds, leftover from eight-year-old Jana's stay following an appendectomy a couple of weeks ago.

These splashes of colour transformed the space. It would never be homely, but it no longer held the oppressive otherness found in hospitals and as such Gordon seemed less on edge. He'd shucked off his hoodie and was now steadily sweating through his t-shirt, but his jaw was still clenched in determination as he pushed himself away from the bed.

No one ever realised just how integral of a role their hearing played in balance until suddenly it was gone, and they had to learn how to live without it. It was an exhausting process both physically and emotionally, but this wasn't Gordon's first rodeo. He'd relearnt how to walk once before and he'd do it again even quicker this time around, hence why he'd abandoned Hira's carefully plotted regime to strike out on his own.

"Hey," Scott called, knocking against the doorframe.

On better days Gordon could still mostly hear, albeit muted, but on bad days he was left floundering in a sea of high-pitched ringing. Scott hadn't had chance to speak with his brother today and so didn't know which it was, but even if Gordon couldn't hear his words the movement would draw his attention. Hopefully, anyway. Impaired hearing also hindered spatial awareness if you were still adjusting, which was a bitter pill to swallow but thankfully that was one issue which would resolve itself. But as with anything, it would take time.

Today was a good day.

"Hey yourself," Gordon replied, snatching up his abandoned hoodie to wipe his face with it. He pushed back sweaty hair and grimaced. "Man, I need a shower and I haven't even officially started the session yet."

"Don't push yourself," Scott warned.

Gordon rolled his eyes.

"Don't push yourself," he mimicked in a pitched voice which sounded nothing like Scott. He braced himself against the wall, closing his eyes against a momentary wave of dizziness. "Aw, shit."

"For the record," Scott sighed as he crossed the room to steady his brother, "This is the reason why you have a recovery plan."

"Nah."

Gordon shook his head and immediately regretted it. A shadow of pain flitted across his face. His hand on the wall was faintly trembling. Scott pretended not to see.

"This is just- This is general side effects. Doesn't matter whether I stick to the plan or not, this is something that happens regardless. It's chill. I can handle it." He mustered a wane smile. "At least I'm not throwing up anymore."

Scott couldn't help but glance across at Alan. His youngest brother had done a remarkable job of evading Gordon ever since he'd been discharged from the medical wing. Face-to-face interactions only heightened that sense of guilt. There was no escaping what Alan had done when confronted with the still healing scar across Gordon's scalp or the mismatched haircut – although Gordon didn't seem particularly concerned about that last one.

"I can just shave the other side to match," he remarked a couple of weeks back, eyes lighting up as he realised, "Oh fuck yeah, I could have a mohawk!"

That being said, he had yet to actually do anything about it.

Now, hovering in the doorway, Alan looked distinctly as if he'd been slapped. He took a step back, arms wrapping around himself subconsciously. Scott went to call out to him, but Gordon got there first.

"Yo, Allie, are you a vampire now or something? Do you need to be invited in?"

Alan blinked. "What?"

Gordon's smile could have rivalled the sun. "Get in here already."

Alan hesitated a moment longer. There was a sense of nervous agitation about him that suggested it wouldn't take much for him to bolt again, but he forced himself to step through the doorway. He twisted his hands together as his gaze flickered unbidden to that scar.

Gordon considered the sweaty hoodie in his hands, grinned, then balled it up and tossed it at his younger brother's head.

Alan let out a muffled squawk. "Dude!"

Gordon's expression melted into something softer while Alan couldn't see him. He plastered the mask back on as Alan yanked the hoodie away from his face and made a disgusted sound.

"Gross."

"You'll live."

Alan's faint smile dimmed. The words were yet another reminder of all the people who hadn't. He dropped the hoodie onto the bed, staring down at it for a long moment. Those storm clouds were darkening his eyes again.

Gordon exchanged a look with Scott. "Hey, can you find where Virg got to? He said he was gonna take a glance at Ingrid's x-rays, offer a second opinion or something, I dunno."

In other words, he wanted a moment alone with Alan. Well. Scott was more than happy to oblige.

He went along with Gordon's excuse for sending him out of the room and went in search of Virgil, who was genuinely checking over a collection of x-ray images of Ingrid Faulkner's – luxury real estate agent – ribs and had concluded that she had not in fact broken anything but just wanted another hit of Oxycontin. There was a reason why medicines were kept under multiple locks, and it wasn't just because supplies were limited. At the end of the world, there was very little to feel happy about and some people had taken to numbing that desolation through any means possible.

Scott tracked Virgil down in one of the consultation rooms. Classical piano music drifted from the holo-projector, so soft that it was more of a suggestion than an actual tune. A series of x-rays were scattered over the desk, each marked with a red pen and paperclipped to a page of notes annotated by Virgil's distinctive handwriting. He stood over the desk frowning down at them but glanced up at the sound of footsteps.

"Alan's with Gordon," Scott announced in a rush.

Virgil lowered his notes back to the desk. "Voluntarily?"

"Well, no. Not exactly. But the point is that they're talking."

"Okay," Virgil said slowly, "That's good." He studied Scott's expression. "Isn't it?"

"Yeah. Yes. It is."

Virgil settled back against the desk, voice gentle as he asked, "Are you okay?"

"Ye- No." Scott caught himself mid-lie. It was instinctive. "No," he corrected.

There was too much energy under his skin. He flexed his hands, then, when the agitation swept up his spine and strangled his chest, he began pacing back-and-forth across the tiny space. The faint pressure of anxiety was settling behind his ribs again. It had crept up on him without warning, an ambush which he hadn't anticipated until now it tried to steal the air from his lungs.

"I had to collect Alan from detainment."

He turned on his heels and stalked back across the room without sparing a glance to gauge Virgil's expression.

"He was defending a waitress and- That part's not- He baited a guard because he wanted to get hurt and… He's too much like me. What if I'm ruining him? He punched a mirror and that's something he definitely learnt from me. I'm trying to be better but what if the part of me that's poison already had an impact?"

Virgil went to speak but Scott couldn't stop. If he didn't let the words fall then he'd choke on them.

"I thought I'd shielded him from that side of me but clearly not and- He's picked up my bad habits and that's on me but now I don't know how to fix it. It's Alan, he's kind and clever and compassionate, but what if I've condemned him simply by being the one to raise him? Because that's not fair. He deserves better but he ended up with me and he calls me Dad as if I'm even slightly close to being worthy of that title."

Scott collapsed into the abandoned desk chair.

"He can't be like me, Virg," he whispered, burying his head in his hands. "He c-can't." He knotted his fingers in his hair, doubling over his knees. "Oh, fuck."

"Hey, hey." Virgil crouched in front of him and caught his wrists, gently guiding his hands down from his face. "Take a breath."

"No, I-"

"You're going to end up hyperventilating at this rate," Virgil pointed out in that particular variety of worried exasperation mixed with the sternness of his Field Medic days when getting people to not only listen but actually hear him was often the difference between life and death.

This situation wasn't anywhere near as serious, but Virgil was right, and Scott really wanted to avoid working himself into a full blown panic attack. He'd been having a relatively good week and the idea of feeling like he was drowning did not appeal thank-you-very-much.

"Breathe," Virgil repeated firmly, squeezing Scott's wrist to reaffirm this order. He tapped his thumb in time with inhales and exhales.

Scott closed his eyes to focus on the pattern. The pressure in his chest began to lessen. He slumped in the chair, suddenly exhausted.

Virgil released his wrists and stood up. "Check in."

"I'm good."

"Hmm."

"I'm better than I was."

"That's more believable."

They were getting better at this – Scott at admitting when he needed help and Virgil at understanding that help didn't necessarily mean contradicting every negative thought but rather listening and pulling Scott out of the spiral when it threatened to drag him under.

Virgil still got disconcerted by the sheer depth of Scott's self-loathing, especially after the events of the past few weeks which was understandable. If their roles had been reversed then Scott would have had a difficult time letting his brother of his sight. But they were building a tentative trust where Virgil didn't overstep, and Scott was learning to be more open about all the lies his mind fed him; small steps, but still progress.

There was a jug of water on top of a filing cabinet in the corner. Virgil poured a glass and pressed it into Scott's hands before he could protest. A single warning stare had Scott accepting it. There were certain times when you just didn't argue with Virgil and the look on his face suggested that this was one such instance.

"I'm going to overlook the part where Alan essentially got arrested for now, although I will be asking many, many questions about that later." Virgil gestured for Scott to finish drinking the water. "Firstly, I think it goes without saying that you can't be held accountable for Alan's actions. Your mind likes lying to you and it'll take any excuse to put you down. But I think you're missing the most important part of all – sure, the kid's picked up some unhealthy coping methods, but he's admitting to them."

"What are the chances that he learnt those methods from anyone other than me? Not very likely."

Virgil took the glass back and set it down on the desk so that Scott had nothing to distract himself with.

"You're still missing the point. Look, even if he did pick those up from you, you've taught him something more important – he felt comfortable telling you. Alan's… he's carrying a lot of guilt and that was bound to have an impact sooner or later. Of course I wish he'd chosen a better way to deal with it, but he's able to open up and recognise that it's not healthy. That's credit to you, Scott. And now we can work through it with him."

Scott stared at those scattered x-ray images without truly seeing them.

"I just want him to be okay," he whispered. "I want him to be happy."

"He'll get there."

Virgil sounded so confident about it. Scott wished he could be so easily convinced. He stole the glass back and drained the rest of the water before pushing himself out of the chair.

"That's been… what, ten minutes now?"

"Thirty," Virgil corrected quietly.

Scott double-took. "What?"

"You were out of it for a little while there," Virgil explained. He winced. "We should check on them, huh?"

Scott practically pulled him out of the room. "You don't say."


Whether Gordon and Alan had actually talked remained unclear, although it wasn't the sort of issue which could be resolved within a single conversation. Either way, Alan seemed slightly less caught up in his own head while Gordon was attempting to hide clear concern behind a guise of poor puns and quick quips. They might not have discussed everything but whatever had been said had been enough to knock Gordon's big brother instincts into overdrive.

Scott exchanged a glance with Virgil to confirm that they'd need to have an unofficial meeting later – one which was long overdue. It was as if the bunker had some sort of hypnotising quality, twisting minds so that every concern seemed ridiculous. There was food in the fridge and a loaded watchlist on TV. Two floors down was a hot tub, for Chrissake. What was there to worry about?

Except, you know, the dwindling supplies and ever-increasing numbers of infected outside the gates – an issue which everyone seemed intent on ignoring. If the World Council had buried their heads in the sand about the threat posed by the parasite to begin with, then these people were even worse. Danger was knocking on their front door, but they were pretending not to notice. Sooner or later, it was going to catch up with them and Scott was determined that his family wouldn't be caught in the crossfire.

Alan perched on the end of a bed, swinging his legs as if he were a child again. Gordon sat next to him to get his breath back, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt in an attempt to look as though he hadn't been working out before his allotted PT session. It was a pointless endeavour as Hira would see through him the second she stepped through the door, but there was little point in trying to convince Gordon to take his efforts down a notch.

Even without that Tracy stubbornness, he was driven by old fears as well as the approaching threat from the surface. The bitter truth was that he really couldn't afford to make anything less than a full recovery, no matter what they all claimed to the contrary. John still hadn't made contact with EOS, the GDF's bombing runs had ceased but who knew for how long, and the infected would eventually breach the compound.

And that was before anyone considered Penelope and Kayo's fates. The longer time dragged on, the worse those odds became. They needed to leave sooner rather than later. But then there was John's condition too, plus Scott's own returning flashes of the hivemind…

So, basically life was a mess. Scott sort of wanted to get blackout drunk although he didn't dare admit that to his brothers, especially not after that episode in front of Virgil earlier. There was still residual panic in his veins as if someone had supercharged his nervous system. He propped himself against the doorframe and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide the faint tremors. It was fine. He was fine. It wasn't a setback. It was just a reaction. He couldn't afford any more steps in the wrong direction.

"Scott," Virgil began in that soft sort of voice, overly gentle. Scott just knew that if he looked over he'd be met with wide, worried eyes. The whole situation set him even more on edge. Virgil's concern irritated him for no apparent reason. He didn't bother to psychoanalyse that one, just mentally cursed himself instead.

"I'm fine," he snapped.

It came out harsher than intended. Virgil wasn't quick enough to hide the flash of hurt which crossed his face.

"Sorry," Scott added reflexively.

Virgil deliberately looked away. "It's okay."

Except, of course, it wasn't, but Scott didn't push the matter. Coward whispered the voice at the back of his head and he exhaled sharply past gritted teeth. He needed something productive to do.

His gaze alighted on the bruise decorating Alan's cheek. Anger stirred its head, spitting venom like a threatened cobra. He latched onto it like a lifeline because the truth was that there was still darkness in him but if he could redirect it onto someone else then maybe it wouldn't turn on him and drag him back down again. He pushed himself away from the doorway, shrugging on the jacket that he'd hooked over a chair earlier.

Virgil caught his shoulder. "Where are you going?"

"To deal with something."

Scott gestured to the room. Hira had abandoned her lecture on limits – sensibly deciding that Gordon was a lost cause on that account – and was now monitoring his progress through various exercises. Alan shouted encouragement complete with loud whoops which coaxed a breathless smile from Gordon as he pushed through to hit a second wind. None of them appeared to have noticed the conversation occurring in the doorway, but Scott lowered his voice anyway.

"It's not as if you need me here. I'll see you later, okay?"

"No, not okay." For the first time a hint of genuine irritation crept into Virgil's tone. He tightened his grip as Scott tried to back away. "Where are you going?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because you're being evasive, which, combined with the fact you're still anxious, does not make me particularly comfortable about leaving you alone right now."

Scott tore himself free of Virgil's grip and practically tripped over his own feet in his haste.

"I am not a fucking child," he hissed.

"I'm not suggesting you are," Virgil replied calmly, taking a deep breath to keep his voice steady. "All I'm saying is-"

"-Is that you don't trust me?"

Virgil faltered.

"I do trust you," he protested, voice made small by his efforts to keep his emotions in check. He'd wrapped his arms around himself, fingers curling around his biceps so tightly that they threatened to bruise. "I'm just worried."

He took a ragged breath.

"You can't blame me for that. If our roles were reversed, you wouldn't let me out of your sight. You know it's true. I show you just how much I trust you every damn day when I let you have your space and try not to hover. But right now… Maybe I'm being paranoid and if so then I'm sorry, but I need you to stay. Just for a while. Even if it's unnecessary, stay for my sake. Please, Scott."

There was a distinctive tremor in his voice which betrayed that he was on the verge of tears. His gaze was fixed on Scott's leather jacket – which John had accepted he would never get back at this point – to avoid his brother's gaze, but his eyes were probably shiny. He relinquished his grip on his biceps and let his hands fall to his sides, forcing himself to take a breath.

Across the room, Gordon was deliberately playing the joker to an exaggerated extent to keep Alan's attention away from them. His own gaze held a certain weight. Scott might not have told him the full details, but he suspected Virgil might have been more truthful.

Scott dropped his jacket back onto the chair. "Okay."

"Okay?" Virgil echoed.

"I'll stay 'til Gordon's done with his session."

Virgil's shoulders slumped. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me for this," Scott muttered. The words were bitter and tasted arid. He knocked his head back against the wall. Anger simmered in his veins, hot like liquor. "This isn't- You shouldn't be worrying about me."

"I always worry about you."

"You never used to worry like this."

Virgil trailed off. There was no reassuring reply.

"I'd rather worry about you than miss you," he said quietly.

Scott closed his eyes against the burning threat of unshed tears. Virgil's shoulder knocked against his. He drew a shaky breath but didn't move away. A moment later, Virgil caught his arm and tapped against the underside of his wrist, I.T.S. O.K. Except it wasn't okay and maybe it never would be again because Virgil knew now, and he was hurt by that knowledge and that was on Scott and-

An arm slunk around his shoulders.

"How'd I do? Am I great or am I frickin' awesome?"

Gordon was speaking too loudly again without realising it. His grin rivalled the sun, matched by the gleam of accomplishment in his eyes. He definitely needed a shower, skin sticky with sweat and uneven hair plastered to his scalp, but he was impossibly alive and Scott swore his brother's presence alone reintroduced fresh oxygen to the room.

"Not too bad," he replied, praying his voice would hold steady.

Gordon studied him, then let the moment pass. "Not too bad? You're a hard sell, Scooter."

He whirled around and Scott winced, automatically going to steady him, but Gordon forced gravity to obey his wishes and marched back over to Alan.

"What d'you say, Allie? Am I still Olympic material?"

For a moment, Scott wondered whether Alan would say anything. The kid was still sat on the bed, hands jammed under his legs to keep from tapping. His eyes held an ocean of guilt because the truth was no, Gordon wasn't Olympic material. He wasn't even making lower reg limits for IR at this point. But that was too painful to admit and so Alan took the offered joke and ran with it. At least his hopelessly proud smile was genuine.

"Hell yeah."

Gordon sank onto the bed beside him. "Gonna be a goddamn superhero at this rate."

In your dreams, Alan went to reply instinctively, but instead he dropped his gaze to the floor and said, very quietly, "Yeah, maybe."