Officially, the afternoon had been a success. They had recorded the Hood's frequency, discovered a possible method for ridding themselves of the parasite, and even unlocked a few historical secrets. So why, Scott wondered, did it still feel as if they had lost?

Memories and emotions merged into an ocean of uncontrollable currents. Fighting them was pointless for he would never win. The only option was to surrender. Consequently, he found himself wandering the hallways in a trance, vaguely aware of Virgil at his side and Ellis trailing after them like a lost child. Her face was fraught with a frown, fingers knitted as she tried not to think about the blood staining her main research room.

She wasn't the only one – Virgil kept wringing his hands, wincing every time he scraped the flourishing bruises on his knuckles. It didn't take a genius to realise that his moment of anger was replaying on repeat in his head like a broken turntable. The instinct to offer comfort briefly stirred, but Scott was dazed. It was as if he'd been hit over the head and was suffering a concussion. Nothing seemed real, not even his own existence. He put one foot in front of the other and followed Virgil back to their quarters on autopilot.

Gordon remained behind (which Scott didn't register until much later that evening). He waved off any concerns and sank to sit with his back to Ellis' front door. For once, he didn't have any weapons on him. One of his knives was still buried between the tendons of the Hood's left hand whilst the other was in John's custody. Silent vigils weren't his thing, but for John he'd stay. Maybe he sensed that his brother would need a hand carrying the burden he'd chosen to shoulder, or perhaps he was simply reluctant to leave John alone in the aftermath. Either way, Virgil wasn't able to talk him out of staying.

"Sorry," Ellis was saying for the hundredth time. She looked on the verge of tears. "I don't want to impose. It's okay, really. I'm sure I can find something to do on the entertainment floor. Or maybe the bar. I could do with a stiff drink."

Virgil placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Ellis, you're staying with us tonight. We wouldn't have it any other way. Are you going to be okay?"

Ellis closed her eyes against the harsh overhead lights. "I will be. I've just never seen- Not everyone here is accustomed to violence. But I'll be alright." She bit her lip. "Thank you." The words escaped in a rush. She ducked her gaze. "Thank you for asking. For caring."

Virgil tried to stamp out the heartbreak in his eyes before it could make itself known on his face.

"I'm sorry. For all of this. You should never have been- I'm sorry, Ellis. Really."

Ellis shook her head. "Don't be. If I had the chance for a do-over, I'd make the same choices. I'd still pick your family. You've given me hope. I didn't realise how badly I needed that until I met you."

There were too many complicated emotions at play for Scott to focus on any one of them. He couldn't even pick apart his own feelings. His head was filling with fog. There was a slither of fear at the edge of his conscious mind which he shied away from, aware that it was the gateway to a collection of memories he never wanted to recall. He didn't notice that he was listing to the side until suddenly Virgil's arm was around his shoulders, holding him upright.

"You with me?"

The problem was that Scott didn't want to be here. Anywhere would be better, but the preferable option was open skies above a glittering ocean of tropical blue with the warmth of the South Pacific sun transforming his world to radiant gold.

He wanted to go home, no matter how childish the thought seemed. He wanted to return to days when he associated red with rockets and knives with kitchen cutlery, when zombies were references to video games and the Hood was a name which filled him with anger rather than fear. But no one ever got what they wanted, so he was left with two choices – giving up or pushing onwards. Sink or swim, Scotty whispered the voice in his head.

He collected his senses and forced himself to meet Virgil's searching look.

"Yeah. Always."

Virgil remained unconvinced but still harboured a healthy sense of relief. He refused to let go, his hold on Scott's shoulders tightening as they stepped into the elevator. Scott was not going to complain. He would cling on just as fiercely in return, only his mind was strung out from his body again and thinking too much about anything might cause that fragile line to snap. He leant into Virgil's side and tried not to think about the haunting grief in John's eyes or Gordon's wearied acceptance as they'd all crossed a line which could never be taken back.

Their quarters were a visceral smack of domesticity. It was more grounding than any breathing exercise or shock of cold water could ever hope to be. Someone had turned up the thermostat to the comfortable warmth of a summer sunset and the air was filled with the sizzling smell of onions and frankfurters.

Scott froze in the corridor, thrown through time to a simpler moment of spring break sunshine and Coney Island hot dogs. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the shrieking laughter of kids and adults alike, feel the weight of shades hooked over his shirt and taste Sadie Howard's cherry chapstick. He was jolted out of the memory by Virgil's light tap to his elbow.

"M'fine," he mumbled, ignoring his brother's question. He crouched down to untie his laces, noting the bloodstain on his sweater cuff with a tired sigh. He tugged it over his head and spared a moment to mentally thank whoever had turned up the heating when he didn't immediately start shivering. Virgil wordlessly took it from him and held out a hand to haul him upright.

The clatter of paws over floorboards was the only warning either of them got before Finch rounded the corner. Her tail wagged a rate of knots to match her wide smile, powered by affection and stolen scraps from whatever Alan had cooked up in the kitchen. She skidded to a halt, weaving in-and-out of Virgil's legs before abandoning him to jump up at Scott.

"Hey, Finch." Scott winced at the sound of his own voice. He tangled his hands in Finch's fur, lowering himself as far as his aching knee would allow him to let her lick his chin. "Did you have a good day, sweetheart?" He couldn't quite keep the darkness out of his voice as he muttered, "Better than I had, I'll bet."

"Scott," Virgil protested, trailing off with a resigned sigh. He hoisted the bloodstained sweater higher in his arms and tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Go sit with Alan. I'll be there in a moment."

Scott stared into Finch's worried eyes. "I don't know what to say to him."

"Then don't say anything. You don't need to. Alan's a smart kid, he'll know not to pry." Virgil hesitated, then added, quietly, "Honestly? I don't want to leave you alone right now. I feel like even you'll agree that wouldn't be a smart idea. But I need a moment, so can you…?"

"Yeah." Scott didn't bother arguing. He was too exhausted for that. "Hey, um…" He stood up but left a hand on Finch's head, absently ruffling her fur as he considered how to voice the thought which had occurred to him several hours back. "Can you grab my, uh-"

Virgil – God bless him – read between the lines. "You forgot to take it this morning, didn't you?"

"Hivemind shit happened. I was distracted."

Virgil nodded. "Give me fifteen minutes." He gestured for Ellis to follow him. "Oh, and drink at least one full glass of water. You're dehydrated. That won't be helping."

It was a relief to see Virgil falling back on caring for others. It was a far better coping method than closing himself off and going through life on autopilot until emotions were no longer quite as raw and nerves weren't so frayed as to make feeling anything risky.

Once upon a time, Scott would have found his brother's fretting an irritation, but now he welcomed it. Open care was refreshing in the wake of so many painful memories. He let Virgil badger him into pulling on a clean hoodie – still warm from the dryer with the scent of soap powder engrained in the fibres – and headed for the kitchen with a promise to drink some water and take pain meds for his headache.

Finch trotted at his heels, close enough to brush against his knee as if she could sense the ache there and wished to offer comfort. He was surprised by the sheer force of fondness which welled up in his chest and clogged his throat, drawing tears to his eyes which he refused to let fall.

Now that the immediate threat was… being dealt with, he could let the survival mode drop. He found pure emotional and physical exhaustion in its place. It weighed heavily on his shoulders and his knees threatened to buckle under the pressure. Only Finch's warmth against his leg kept him moving until he could collapse into a kitchen chair and bury his head in his crossed arms.

It took a concerningly long minute for him to recall that he wasn't alone. Alan had yet to say anything, but his quiet humming had fallen silent. For some reason, that hurt, possibly even worse than any of the emotional soccer punches Scott had received over the past couple of hours. He couldn't bring himself to lift his head from the table and cursed himself for it because he could sense Alan's uncertainty and knew the kid was wondering how to break the silence when really, Alan shouldn't have to tiptoe around anyone, let alone him.

Tiny vibrations ran under his fingertips as something was set down on the tabletop. It was accompanied a second later by a light touch to his upper back. Scott inhaled deeply and tried to figure out what to do with the new wave of desperate grief in his chest. He couldn't even pinpoint the exact cause for the sadness and anger and exhaustion and every other wealth of feeling. Was he mourning all that had been lost at the Hood's hands? Was he angry because it had been meaningless? Or was he just tired of hurting?

Alan left his hand there for a moment longer. "Long day."

It wasn't a question. It didn't seem like an observation either. Just a comment, an attempt at solidarity perhaps.

Scott lifted his head from the table. "Yeah. Long day."

Alan pushed the object closer. It was a classic glass bottle – the sorts which rarely existed anymore outside of decorative marketing purposes at launches and whatnot – with an unfaded red label. Scott stared at it, wishing he could always associate that colour with Coca-Cola rather than violence. He ran a thumb over the raised patterns across the glass and watched the drink fizz.

"You should drink it," Alan said, aiming for nonchalance as if he couldn't care less either way when in reality his concern was obvious. "Might make you feel better."

Ironically, alcohol was easier to get hold of than fizzy drinks these days. Scott tapped the bottle to watch bubbles rise to the surface.

"Where did you get this?"

Alan shrugged, sliding across the tiles in threadbare socks. "People were trading today."

"You don't have anything to trade."

Alan busied himself with rescuing mildly scorched onions from the frying pan.

"Alan."

"Okay, fine, I won some stuff. A bunch of guys were playing cards."

Scott recalled teenage temper tantrums pre-Z-Day when Gordon won against Alan every damn game and would proceed to lord it over him for the next twenty-four hours.

"You're no good at cards."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're not good enough to win," Scott amended.

Alan's smile held a hint of mischief. "Not legally, no."

"Oh god," Scott sighed as realisation struck. "Who taught you to count cards? Gordon? No, it was Kayo, wasn't it?"

"Parker, actually."

Alan glanced over his shoulder. It was impressive just how long he managed to keep a straight face despite his obvious struggle. Scott couldn't fight his own smile at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. Alan clasped his hands to his mouth, but an undignified snort still escaped, swiftly followed by genuine laughter.

"Do I want to know what else he taught you?"

"Probably not," Alan admitted, still grinning like a hyena. He shoved the frying pan off the hotplate and switched his attention to slicing fresh bread, still warm at its centre with a thick crust and fluffy dough. It was clearly another totem of an illegally won card game, but Scott wasn't about to complain. "Drink up."

"Yessir," Scott joked, but took a sip of the Coke regardless. The sugar was an adrenaline shot, awakening his senses from the daze he had fallen into. He sat back in his chair to watch Alan's attempts at making dinner without burning anything. He still felt as if he'd been hit by an emotional battering ram, but it was easier to breathe again.

He cradled the Coke between his palms and focussed on the cold seeping into his hands. Tiny beads of condensation rolled down the bottle's neck and pooled in a ring on the tabletop. Focussing on the little details allowed him to rebuild his life from that moment outwards so that it was easier to pay attention to the good rather than the bad. Or something like that, anyway. He was too tired to think. He took another sip and closed his eyes as the fizz threatened to make him cough.

"Scott," Alan began in that particular tone of cautious care, unwilling to step into a role which was usually claimed by Virgil. He wiped breadcrumbs from his hands and dug in his pockets for a sachet of painkillers. Finch snuffled at his heels as he eased her aside to sit on the table in front of Scott, moving the Coke bottle before he could accidentally knock it over.

Scott examined the kid's serious expression, fondly bemused. "What?"

Alan slid the meds within reach. "Take two."

"Okay, doc."

Alan glowered at him. It was funnier than it was intimidating, but Scott took two just to humour him. Besides, that headache was steadily growing worse. He chased them down with another sip of Coke, then jolted back so sharply that his chair screeched over tiles.

"Sorry!" Alan lifted his hands in surrender. The damp cloth in his grip was steadily dripping cold water over his knees. "I'm just- You, uh…" He studied the discoloured fabric with a sad sigh. "You've got a bit of, um, blood." He cleared his throat and held up the cloth. "Can I…?"

Alan had been far too young when Lucille had died to remember her, but sometimes he was so clearly her son that those who had known her found it almost painful. Scott didn't trust his voice, so just nodded and tried not to flinch at the cold cloth as Alan dabbed it against his temple with the same revered gentleness with which he treated Finch.

Scott found the role reversal disconcerting yet leant into the touch at the same time. He told himself that it was as much for Alan's sake as for his own – the kid was a lot like Virgil sometimes: finding reassurance in his ability to care for others. A warm weight settled on his knees as Finch propped her head in his lap. He rested his hand on top, absently easing tangles out of the longer fur around her ears. A minute or so passed in silence until a thought occurred to him.

"You don't seem…"

"Freaked out?" Alan supplied. He shrugged. "I've seen enough blood to be used to it."

Which, as a standalone statement without context, was very concerning. Even knowing Alan was referring to IR, Scott still found the words unsettling. But that hadn't been his real question and they both knew it.

"I knew you had a meeting this afternoon," Alan explained after a moment. His voice was slightly distracted as he focussed on wiping away the final traces of blood. "I'm not an idiot. I guessed who it was with. I get why you didn't want me there. I don't think it would be a smart idea to put me in the same room as him either. But then Gordon called to give me the head's up like five minutes before you guys came back, so I kinda knew it hadn't gone well."

That explained why Gordon had vanished with his radio for a couple of minutes after they had initially stepped out of Ellis' quarters. On one hand, Scott wished they could have saved Alan from any further knowledge of just how cruel the world could be, but he also recognised that Gordon had made the right call. Keeping Alan in the dark would only cause more problems.

Alan tossed the cloth at the sink without checking to see if it landed. He reached over to pat Finch's head, then leant back against his hands. A considering look crossed his face.

"Whatever he said to you was wrong," he remarked quietly.

"You don't know what was said."

"I don't need to. I can already tell it was a bunch of lies."

Scott absently traced a line between Finch's ears. "Maybe."

"So, what? You believe the Hood over me?" Alan crossed his arms indignantly. "His opinion is worth more than mine? No. I don't think so. Fuck whatever he said. I'm telling you that you're awesome and I'm way more trustworthy than that sonuvabitch."

Scott repressed a smile. "One of these days, we're gonna have to talk about your language. You're getting worse than Gordon."

And me, he added silently.

Alan shook his head with a faint laugh. "Nuh-uh, Scotty. No swear jars in the apocalypse, remember? Grandma said so." His grin turned mischievous. "Are you saying she was wrong?"

"God, no, I'm not that brave. Grandma's word is law, you know that."

Alan slid off the table, heels hitting the ground with a resounding smack.

"Exactly," he announced gleefully. "So. Are you gonna stop being horrible to yourself now? Or do I have to fight all your negative thoughts? Because I will. I totally will. I don't know how given thoughts are metaphysical, but I'll find a way if that's what it takes."

"Alan," Scott went to say, only amusement suddenly transformed into an overwhelming sense of grief for someone he hadn't yet lost. His voice dried up to be replaced by a humiliating crack. He drew a jagged breath and prayed that he wouldn't cry. It was bad enough falling to pieces in front of Gordon, but please God, not in front of Alan. He observed the slight hunch of the kid's shoulders as Alan registered the barely restrained pain in his voice and turned back to him instantly.

Are you okay, Alan went to ask, then let the question die unspoken. Words were too precious to be wasted, not when none of them knew how much time they had left – which was no different from pre-Z-Day, but they were all more conscious of it these days. He wrestled with an indistinguishable mess of emotions, unable to cover up the brief flash of anger in his eyes which served as further proof that it would not have been a good idea to put him within range of the Hood.

The worst part, Scott considered, was that the true impact had yet to fully hit him. He suspected that it would come with shockwaves, crashing down with all the devastation of a meteor strike. He dreaded to imagine those repercussions. There was a very real risk that it was going to knock him back into the same fog which had left him unable to get out of bed and he was so tired at even the thought of undoing so much progress. Not to mention the part where they didn't have time for such major setbacks.

If Gordon believed himself to be a liability, then Scott was a goddamn walking time-bomb. He stared at Finch's fur until his vision blurred, wishing that Alan were elsewhere because he didn't want him seeing this – seeing him trying not to fall apart at the kitchen table, haunted by the Hood's words.

"It's okay," Alan whispered, voice tiny. He put an uncertain hand on Scott's shoulder and bit back a comment at the faint tremor.

Scott didn't trust his voice to remain steady enough to reply, I know. Besides, it would be a lie because the truth was that he didn't know. The truth was that he doubted anything would ever be okay again. The future was forged from history's crimes, and he never seemed able to escape them.

So, no, it wasn't okay, and Alan seemed to sense that as he didn't try to claim otherwise for a second time. His grip on Scott's shoulder tightened as he gently nudged Finch aside and stepped so close that he knocked his knee against the edge of the chair.

"You alright?" Scott mumbled without lifting his head from his hands. It was a feeble attempt to hide his face which was pointless given Alan already knew that he was upset. He stole a glance through his fingers as Alan bit back a curse. No doubt he'd sport a bruised knee later.

Alan flapped a hand to disregard the concern. "Shh. That's not important."

He kept his hand on Scott's shoulder, contemplating something for a moment. His hesitation was overridden by unambiguous, unconditional love, purer than sunlight and more familiar than the stars in the sky. At the end of all things, little else mattered. He wrapped his arms around Scott and pulled him close before he could second-guess himself again. He was still standing, whereas Scott was sitting, and it was an odd reversal of heights.

"I wish I could make it hurt less," Alan murmured. Caring so openly carried risk nowadays, so maybe Scott had done something right if his kid was still willing to show such vulnerability. "But I can't. There's nothing I can do, and I hate it. I don't know how to help, Scotty. All I can do is be here."

His hands coiled slightly in Scott's hoodie, subconsciously pulling him closer, so Scott gave in and let his head fall against Alan's shoulder. His instincts recoiled, reminding him that he was supposed to be the one offering comfort when it came to Alan, not the other way around, but he couldn't bring himself to care about that. Not now.

Not when Alan's racing heartbeat promised that the kid was secretly a lot more freaked out than he was letting on. Not when Finch wriggled between their legs with a worried whine. Not when Alan was holding him so tightly that it was almost difficult to breathe, but the hug might just have been the only thing keeping him from drifting away again.

"I don't need you to do anything," Scott assured him, voice muffled by Alan's shirt. "You help so many people just by being yourself, Allie, including me."

Alan took a shaky breath. "I just… I feel like I should be doing more."

"Such as?"

"I dunno." Alan let out a damp laugh. "Saving the world?"

He refused to let go as Scott tried to pull away.

"Whatever he said, whatever he did – I don't care. Wait, I mean, I care, obviously, but- Shit. Okay, rephrase. What I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't be ashamed or blame yourself or anything like that, because I don't see you any differently. You're still you in all the ways which matter. He tried to take you away from us, but he failed. And now the world's ending and no one has much time left and he's gonna have to spend his final moments alone, so who's really lost? Not us."

Scott tightened his hold. "Have I mentioned lately just how proud of you I am?"

"Probably, but I'm happy to hear it again."

Alan's voice sounded suspiciously choked despite his joking tone. He reluctantly let go, but not before dropping a quick kiss to Scott's forehead, promptly skidding back across the kitchen to pretend as if nothing had happened. He even attempted to whistle, acting as far from normal as it was possible to get as Virgil slipped into the room.

"Do I want to ask?" Virgil nodded towards Alan as he stole a seat at Scott's side.

"No one must know that teenagers express affection," Scott deadpanned.

Virgil's bemused smile melted into something fonder. "Ah. Of course not." His gaze settled on the half-empty Coke. "Did you drink any water?"

Scott raised the bottle and looked at it pointedly.

Virgil levelled him with an unimpressed frown. "That's not water."

"My sugars were low."

"You're not limited to a single drink, Scott."

Virgil pushed himself from his chair, wincing as every ache and pain decided to make itself known, and filled a glass in the sink. He paused as he glimpsed Alan's hot-dog station which was slowly expanding to take over every scrap of room on the counter.

"How did you…? Where did you…?"

"Don't ask," Scott advised.

Alan's low snigger was reminiscent of past pranks. He poked the onions dubiously with a spatula, then shoved the frying pan under Virgil's nose for inspection.

"These are supposed to be caramelised. Where did I go wrong?"

Virgil pushed the glass into Scott's hand and turned back to his youngest brother. "Uh… looks like you turned the heat up too high."

"Dangit," Alan cursed, directing a final scowl at the ill-fated onions.

"It'll taste fine, Al," Virgil assured him, faintly amused. "Although I'd still like to know where you got all of this."

Alan glanced up with an impish grin. "Magic."

"Math," Scott corrected.

Virgil dropped back into his chair. He had an air of heavy tiredness about him with the same haunted eyes as someone who had learned something which they then wished they'd never known. He'd clearly taken a quick shower as his hair was damp and ruffled in a manner which suggested it had been roughly towel-dried, not to mention his bloodshot eyes despite a lack of any tear tracks on his face.

He seemed slightly disconnected with reality, taking a solid five minutes to register that Scott was staring at him. He fished a familiar orange bottle out of his pocket and slid it across the table. Scott pushed him the painkillers in return, earning a grateful nod.

"Guys," Alan sighed dramatically, "Quit drug dealing in my kitchen."

Scott was hard-pressed not to laugh. He'd reached that point of tiredness where everything seemed not-quite-real and was hysterically funny as a result. Part of him wanted to lie down and sleep for the next few hours, but he suspected that exhaustion was all that stood between his mind and the aftermath, and he wanted to postpone that for as long as possible.

He shook off the thoughts, fumbling with the childproof cap on the Zoloft bottle – seriously, those things caused more problems for adults than they did protect kids, he swore it. His hands seemed clumsy as if they didn't fully belong to him and he couldn't get a good grip.

It was such a small thing – barely a drop in the ocean of problems on his plate – but for some reason it threatened to tip him over the edge. Irritation welled up in a wave which washed away any feeble sense of contentment he'd stumbled across. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to just toss the damn thing in the trash. It wasn't as if he could keep taking it forever – why not go cold-turkey now and save himself the long-drawn-out process of decreasing dosage over the next month?

Virgil silently held out a hand. He didn't look up from the Coke bottle – the rest of which he had stolen and claimed for himself – just waited patiently for Scott to accept that he needed help.

"I could've done that," Scott grumbled as Virgil swiftly opened the bottle and passed it back without so much as a single glance at the cursed object.

Virgil drained the rest of the Coke to hide his smile. "Of course you could."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"Definitely not."

"Because I could have. I had it under control."

"Uh huh." Virgil tipped back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. "Sure."

On one hand, pretending as if nothing had happened felt strange and sort of unnatural, a little like the stillness before a lightning strike – knowing that all Hell would inevitably break lose but unable to predict exactly when. On the other, it was a breath of fresh air.

Scott needed a normal evening, even if it wasn't real and they were all playing roles which no longer properly fit them. He was grateful for the brief respite even if it only lasted a couple of hours. Maybe a part of him hoped that if he pretended to be okay, he actually would be – a naïve thought, but one that he couldn't shake.

Alan deposited a large plate of prepped hot dogs onto the table, then dropped into a seat and drew his feet up onto the edge because he was still incapable of sitting in a chair like a normal person. He didn't wait for them to take their shares before scarfing down his own food and reaching for a second helping. Scott wasn't about to complain about that – the kid was still too damn skinny, even after several weeks of proper meals.

"There are more," Alan defended himself, licking ketchup from his fingers. "I left the heat on low, so they won't get cold, but I don't know when the others are getting back."

Gordon and John were an unknown quantity and Marisa and co had already eaten according to the plates soaking in soapy water in the sink, but Ellis had yet to make an appearance. Scott glanced at Virgil questioningly.

His brother offered a tiny shrug. "Ellis might turn up later, but I doubt she's hungry. She said she was going to take a shower and maybe try to sleep. Earlier was… Well. You know. Give her some time to process. I've given her that spare room with the blue curtains, so don't disturb her."

That last remark was directed at Alan. Not that he was paying much attention, mostly interested in inhaling crumbs and proceeding to hack up half a lung when he inevitably choked on them. Virgil leaned over to give him a firm whack on the back.

"Thanks," Alan gasped out. He shot a betrayed glare at the final hot dog which had yet to be claimed. Virgil shoved it towards Scott with a stern look which promised any argument would be futile.

The silence inched towards the realm of uncomfortable. The afternoon's events were an unspoken elephant in the room which they were all conscious of but were equally as reluctant to mention.

Scott picked at the bread, his appetite suddenly lost. He glimpsed one of the scars carving a river across his palm and the food turned to tasteless ash. The Hood's voice rang in his ears. He repressed a shudder. At his side, Finch shuffled closer until she practically sat on his feet.

"Was it worth it?" Alan asked quietly, refusing to look up. "Like, did it work?"

Scott exhaled in a rush. "Yeah, it worked."

"Whether it was worth it is an entirely different question," Virgil muttered, then looked surprised as if he hadn't expected to voice that thought aloud. When he reached down to ruffle Finch's fur, his hand was shaking slightly. Bruises stained his knuckles a darkening red as time ticked onwards. It looked painful enough for Scott to wonder whether his brother had done more damage than either of them had realised.

"So, um…" Alan piped up, then lost his nerve.

He wrapped his arms around his knees. The lights were dimming automatically in accordance with the late evening sunset and his eyes seemed to take on a green hue as if he were still wearing those contacts – presumably now lying at the bottom of a refuge heap somewhere in the bunker.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "So… what now? What happens next?"

Virgil gingerly probed his damaged knuckles and showed no signs of having heard the question. Alan's gaze fell on Scott, tilting his head slightly in question. Even Finch's ears were pricked.

In all honesty, Scott had no idea what their next move was. It was something he wanted to discuss with John, although it was beginning to look doubtful whether that conversation would actually happen. They needed a plan. That was how people survived these days – by thinking ahead and not making hasty in-the-moment decisions; something which, as a family, they were notoriously bad at doing. It was a wonder they had lasted as long as they had – their continued survival was probably credit to their perseverance and sheer stubbornness more than strategy.

The next steps were obvious. Check the frequency worked outside of the Hood's control. Locate Noah Warren, who currently monopolised all oncology treatments within the bunker, and talk him into helping them with two doses of radiotherapy. Kick the parasite out for good – no more creepy hivemind shit, because Scott was so done with that. Gather their team, head down to the tunnels and get the hell outta Dodge. Or, you know, out of the bunker. And then out of Duluth, which Scott suspected was going to be the hardest part of all given its reputation as a hot-zone.

So. Scott knew what had to be done. He just wasn't sure of the fine details. Unfortunately, Alan had a growing habit of liking the fine details, so he could plan for when everything inevitably went to shit and produce multiple back-up plans seemingly on the fly.

"Our first priority is dealing with the hivemind," Scott ventured, wondering whether he could hint at the solution rather than outright stating it. He could already predict the way Alan would throw himself into research and proceed to panic over the possible side-effects. The kid was too clever for his own good. "It's gonna involve getting Warren on our side."

Alan's gaze flickered to Virgil for a moment. He stamped out a frown when Virgil still didn't acknowledge the conversation and shifted his focus back to Scott.

"Okay, well that shouldn't be a problem. Noah owes you, right? We flew that scouting mission for him."

"He's going to want something more." Scott interlocked his fingers to keep from tapping. "He's in the Hood's pocket still, so it'll take more than just an owed favour."

Alan looped a drawstring around his thumb and tugged at it absently.

"That doesn't make sense. Noah's, like… well, he's dying, isn't he? What can the Hood offer him that he doesn't already have? He's got a secure place in the bunker, access to medical care, a seat on that weird committee thing. What else is there?"

Scott had been wondering the same thing.

"Rich men want to get richer," he mused.

"Not including yourself in that, huh?" Alan twisted the drawstring into a knot. "Unless… unless that's exactly what it is. Money's meaningless, but remember what the Hood said when we first got here? Knowledge is the new currency. If he's offered Noah information…"

"Stringing him along, telling him something new every so often to keep him sweet," Scott continued.

Alan pulled a face. "I don't think anyone ever has described Noah Warren as sweet."

"To keep him on side then."

"I know what you meant. Just felt like annoying you." Alan's heels slid off the chair to thud against the tiles, startling Virgil out of his daze. "The question is, what's the information? Because somehow I don't think it's rotter related. Why would Noah care about that? He's safe inside the bunker. It's gotta be something else."

"Or," Scott countered, "The Hood's lying to him." He couldn't keep the venom out of his voice. "God knows he lied about everything else."

Alan hesitated, sensing that they were entering hot water. "What happened?"

"What did Gordon tell you?"

"Not enough." Alan paused, considering. "You know what? Never mind. Let's just forget this whole conversation. I'm thinking a movie night. But I claim first pick." He dropped the joking tone in favour of something softer. "Seriously. Today sucked. We need a break."

He skidded out of the room without giving them a chance to argue. Finch shifted on her haunches, considering following him but ultimately deciding that she was needed more in the kitchen. Scott buried his hands in her fur and let his mind drift, marvelling at the softness and warmth and the sense of honour that came with being trusted completely by a living creature. He aimed a light kick at Virgil's shins.

Virgil blinked. "Sorry, what?"

Yeah, Alan was definitely right about needing a break. They were all running on fumes. Scott was distinctly reminded of a rescue-gone-wrong spent watching his fuel gauge drop into the red, knowing that he had accept the inevitable despite wanting to convince himself that there was still a chance for everything to work out. That sense of anticipatory dread draped itself around his shoulders like an ill-fitting coat. He summoned Finch to heel with a short whistle, then turned to Virgil expectantly.

"Are you coming?"

"Yeah." Virgil's voice was a ghost. He curled his injured hand into a pained fist, inhaled deeply, then pushed his chair back. "I'm just…"

"Out of it?"

"Something like that."

Their shoulders knocked together as they headed for the lounge side-by-side. Virgil didn't move away. Finch trotted between them, delighted to be in the presence of not just one but two of her favourite people.

"I hate being angry," Virgil confessed, so quietly that it was barely a murmur. He patted Finch's back as her tail knocked his knee. "I was angry before, but now. It doesn't even compare. I can't stop replaying it in my head. Everything he put you through… I know I have a role to play. There's a specific type of person who you all need me to be, and revenge doesn't fit the description. But right now… Scott, I could kill him and not lose any sleep over it."

"I think John already has that covered."

Virgil fell quiet.

"Maybe," he replied eventually. "Gordon did stay behind for a reason."

Scott paused in the doorway to the lounge.

"Is it bad that I don't want to think about any of it? I just- I can't. Not right now. Not yet. If I remember…" Panic writhed like a physical creature nestled between his organs. He gripped the doorframe tightly enough for his knuckles to ache. "I can't let myself remember, Virg. And I know, I know, repression isn't healthy and so on, but we're running out of time. I can't afford another setback. The sooner we get out of here, the better."

Virgil studied him for a long moment. "You know the Hood was wrong, don't you?"

"About which part, specifically?" Scott tried to brush off Virgil's concern, aiming for a casual, joking tone and falling very far short.

"Scott," Virgil protested in a small, pained sort of whisper, complete with worried puppy-dog eyes to rival Finch.

Scott leant against the doorframe, hit by a new wave of exhaustion. "What do you want me to say?"

"That you know it was all a bunch of lies."

"He had a point. You can't deny that he had a point. I'm never going to be able to go a day without remembering what he did to me. He made sure of that."

Scott lifted his hands out of his pockets, palms-up. The light turned raised scar tissue silver, twisting strange shadows between his fingers to throw monsters across the floorboards.

"I'm not like Gordon. I don't know how he does it. He looks at every scar and sees proof of his own survival. I look at mine and just remember all the ways I've fucked up."

Virgil stared at him. "Jesus, Scott. That's…"

"-Bullshit," Alan cut in, materialising like a ghost in the doorway.

Scott nearly leapt out of his skin. The kid glowered at him challengingly.

"It's bullshit. We've been over this already. Who cares what the Hood said? He's a liar and he's gonna rot in Hell. And if the scars really bother you that much, just cover them up. Get a cool tattoo or something. Virg or I can draw you a design. Better yet, let's go somewhere with an actual therapist because goddamn, we all need professional help. Now can we please watch this stupid movie before I have another dumb panic attack?"

"Another?" Scott seized upon the word. "Hey, hey, hold on a second, what d'you mean another?"

Alan made a curious sound of exasperation that was partway between a growl and a sigh. He grabbed Scott's arm and hauled him over to the couch, shooting Virgil a warning glare over his shoulder when their brother didn't immediately follow. Finch scrambled up and plonked herself in Scott's lap, successfully pinning him in place and look immensely pleased with herself.

Virgil sank into the couch cushions. We're talking about this later, his eyes said.

Scott pretended not to notice.

Alan scrambled into the space between them, propping his head on Scott's shoulder and hooking his legs over Virgil's knees. He reached up to grab the thick blue quilt from the back of the couch, unfolding it by flailing it mid-air and letting it settle across them. Finch nosed her way free with a disgruntled growl, tucking her muzzle into the crook of Scott's neck. He laid a hand on her back. There was something reassuring about her steady breathing. He could feel the flutter of her heartbeat through his hoodie.

The opening scene of the movie rolled unobserved.

Alan fished something out of his pocket. "Oh, hey, Scotty?"

Scott raised a brow as Alan gestured for him to hold out a hand and dropped a coin into it.

"What's this for?"

Alan turned back to the screen with a nonchalant shrug.

"Swear jar," he explained.

Somehow, impossibly, despite everything, Scott began to laugh.


Sleep came willingly. Scott tried to drag his heels, staring at the TV until the blue glare stained silhouettes into his retinas and his vision seemed to buzz, but exhaustion was a comforting presence which he couldn't help but sink into.

Needless to say, sleep didn't hang around for long, abandoning him in the dark youth of night-turned-morning when one-two-three-AM all blurred into a single expanse of time. But it left him rested enough for yesterday's feelings to escape the overflowing box in his mind and slowly drain the oxygen from his lungs until he couldn't breathe.

He awoke with a jolt with a strange pit in his stomach as if he'd been falling for a long time and had finally hit the ground. The room was in semi-darkness save for the pale halo thrown by a lamp in the corner. A blinking amber light declared the TV to have fallen into hibernation mode. Finch had migrated to the floor where she had claimed the grey sheepskin rug and was snoring with her tail tucked neatly over her nose.

Alan was out for the count too, his head in Scott's lap with his hood yanked low to protect his eyes from the TV glow. He had one hand curled in Virgil's shirt, who was also asleep but nowhere near as deeply, awkwardly curled into the corner of the couch in a position which would leave him with a neckache for the next few hours at least.

Scott didn't move at first. He took a shallow breath to test his lungs, then, when panic no longer had hm in a chokehold, inhaled so deeply that his chest ached. It didn't feel as if he could get enough air, although that was probably just a side-effect of the consistent fear. He hadn't truly shaken it since his time with the Hood, but he'd only become consciously aware of it yesterday. It was stronger now, fed by memories and terror in the face of irreversible evils. What if the Hood was right? What if this truly was it? What if there was genuinely no chance of a vaccine?

This is it, Scott recalled with a shiver. He wrapped a hand around the opposite wrist and frowned, trying to gauge his own temperature without much success. He swore he hadn't been this cold a few hours earlier, but no one had touched the thermostat.

Another thick wave of fear rose up his throat and he braced himself against the armrest, trying not to think about anything until the moment passed. But he couldn't help it. The what-ifs were relentless. Maybe he'd stored them all up behind a mental dam and now, after so many years of dodging that type of question, the floodgates had crumbled.

What if, what if, what if.

There was electricity in his veins and he needed to move before he crawled out of his own skin.

He eased Alan off his knees and tucked a cushion beneath the kid's head. Despite the chill which raised goosebumps along his arms, he pulled off his hoodie and bundled it into a makeshift pillow which he eased behind Virgil's neck in the hopes of saving him from further pain. The blue quilt had fallen onto the carpet, but he shook it open and draped it over his brothers, crouching down to ensure it was tucked carefully around Alan's shoulders and then carding a hand through Virgil's hair until that worried frown disappeared.

Finch raised her head and watched him. Her eyes were bright with curiosity. She stretched, clambered to her paws, and followed him into the hallway. Scott waited for her to catch up before pulling the door shut behind him. He had a sneaking suspicion that Gordon and John would be back soon and he didn't want them to disturb Virgil and Alan.

Marisa had tacked a note onto the kitchen door, informing him that she'd run into Ellis and ensured that the scientist had eaten dinner and was feeling a lot more settled. There was no mention of Theo and Jasmin – unusual, given Theo and Alan seemed to be joined at the hip these days and Jasmin rarely went a full day without hanging out with Gordon – and Scott tried to ignore the flare of worry. If anything had happened, Marisa would have told him. But he couldn't stop thinking yet another what if. It was a damn curse.

His breathing was uneven. Exhales and inhales tripped over one another. He flattened a hand against his chest. His heart was pounding as if he'd just finished a marathon. The hallway swam as light-headedness slunk forwards to take centre-stage.

He staggered backwards until his back hit the wall and slid down to smack his tailbone against the floor, curling over his knees, clawing at his thermal undershirt as if that was constricting his airflow. Panic made him sick. His hands were clammy. Cold sweat trickled down his spine and he was viscerally reminded of wheezing under the icy shower in the Hood's quarters.

What if-

No, no, no, nononono-

Something soft brushed his chin. He became aware of a light pressure against his side. Finch pushed her way into his arms, forcing him to uncurl from his hunched position. He anchored his hands in her fur rather than digging his nails into his knees. She studied him with wide, worried eyes.

Scott knocked his head back against the wall. His eyes were burning. He rested a hand on Finch's back as she curled up in his lap. Her heartbeat was steady under his touch, breathing regular, interrupted by a faint whine as she peered up at him.

"S'okay," he gasped out, voice rough, still slightly dizzy. He swallowed, running a hand down Finch's spine. "I'm okay."

Finch's tail thudded against his knee as if to agree with him. She nosed the underside of his chin until he obligingly petted her some more.

The simple act of stroking the dog lowered his heartrate. Breathing became easier. He focussed on the feeling of her fur under his hands, the warm weight of her in his lap, the faint whistle of her breath as she tucked her head into the crook of his neck and stayed in his arms.

"You're a goddamn miracle, sweetheart, you know that?" he whispered, voice splintering. "The best dog." He bit his cheek against the threat of tears. "My mom would have loved you. She had a soft spot for animals. If she'd had her way, our house would have been full of pets. But raising five boys was enough chaos. Still. She'd have made a fuss of you."

He ran his fingers through her fur.

"What if the Hood's not lying? What if there's no vaccine? No cure? What then, Finch? What do I do, huh? What can I do? I can't save the world. I don't think I can even save myself, truth be told. Stories like mine only ever end two ways and neither are peaceful."

Finch let out a low whine.

Scott tipped his head back against the wall.

"Yeah, I know. Not an option. And I'm not really considering it. It's just- Once you think of killing yourself, it's at the back of your mind as a last resort. Like a ghost. Always there. Or maybe that's just me. Christ. I need a fucking therapist. I don't know why I'm telling you this. You're a dog. Maybe I am losing it. God knows. Who cares anymore?"

Finch's tail gave a little half-wag, unsettled by his tone but happy to hear his voice in any capacity.

"Society might be lost for good. A madman tried to kill me and took my blood to make a fake vaccine which he then used in human trials despite knowing it wouldn't work. I'd say the world's gone mad, but I think that happened long before any of this."

He rested his cheek against the top of her head.

"You know what I want? To go home. Before any of this crap started. Hell, maybe I don't even mean the island. Maybe I mean all the way back to when we were kids. Wishes are okay if they're impossible, see? Because then you know they can never come true so it doesn't hurt to have your hopes dashed, 'cos you never had any in the first place."

He sighed.

"Problem is, Finch," he continued quietly, "I've still got hope that we can fix all of this. And that's dangerous. That means I've got something left for the world to take from me. And when that happens – if that happens, I suppose – it's not gonna be pretty."

He rotated the Zoloft bottle in his pocket. The label was peeling and kept catching against the callouses on his fingertips.

"I don't think all the pills in the world are gonna be enough to drag me out of that spiral if it happens. I don't think all the love in the world would be enough either. Which is real' fucking selfish of me, right? To even think of putting my family through that? Anyway. We've got a plan. Sort of. And if it works, then we can solve the next problem and work our way up to fixing the world. See? This is what I'm talking about. A little bit of hope is useful, but too much can kill you."

A brief thud drew his attention to the front door. Soundproofing prevented any voices from leaking through, but the scuffle was promptly followed by the door opening inwards and depositing an unlikely duo on the welcome mat. John had an arm hooked around Gordon's neck, stumbling to keep his balance as he listed heavily sideways. Gordon seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright, fumbling to kick the door shut without dropping his brother.

Scott didn't need to smell the liquor fumes engrained into John's clothes to spot the signs, even all the way from the corridor. He scrambled to his feet and left an indignant Finch behind.

Gordon had managed to disentangle his arms from John's and had propped his brother against the wall. They'd stolen spare clothes from somewhere, but still wore traces of blood which had escaped their notices. John's nails were ringed red to match his bloodshot eyes. It was hard to tell if he was shivering or shaking. The alcohol had done nothing to ease dark thoughts and everything to draw them to the forefront.

Gordon's face was lined with grim tiredness. "I'm sober, before you ask. Johnny's the one who decided to drink half the bar."

"So fuckin' judgy," John muttered. "I was fine. Jeezus. You could've left."

"Bullshit," Gordon shot back, but his gaze softened. "You're a hot mess, space-case."

"Nah," John slurred, the words catching on the tail-end of a brittle laugh that broke into unshed tears. He wrapped his arms around himself until his fingers threatened to dig into his ribs. "'m a killer. Get it right." He took a desperate gulp of air. "Would've killed 'im too. Should've."

Gordon's shoulders slumped as he sighed. "The Hood's alive. I couldn't let… I want him dead, Scott. But wanting him dead and actually killing him… Self-defence or in the name of a rescue - that's different. But he was handcuffed to a chair. And killing him in that way – he deserves it, but we'd be the ones who'd have to live with that."

Scott took a moment to find his voice. "You didn't kill him?"

"No." Gordon ducked his head to hide the flash of guilt on his face. "Nearly, but no."

Scott exhaled in a rush. "Oh, thank fuck."

"Um. Okay? Wasn't expecting that reaction, not gonna lie."

Gordon stepped closer, lowering his voice so that John wouldn't overhear.

"John scared the shit outta me. He lost it. I didn't think he was gonna stop. And when he finally did… I couldn't bring him back here like that. So, we swung by medical, used their showers and picked up a change of clothes. Then John said he needed a drink and… Well. Voila."

"Voila," Scott repeated slowly, unsure how to feel about this turn of events. He mentally took a step back and assessed the situation as a whole.

Gordon was jittery, not just his usual unable-to-stay-still-for-longer-than-a-minute fidgets, but anxious twitches. His eyes kept glazing with a double stare as memories overlapped the present. He wiped his hands against his legs as if they were still covered in blood. He wore a thick layer of guilt and grief.

The anger in his heart was directed at himself, believing that he should have gone ahead and put a knife in the Hood's chest regardless of morals. But quite aside from all of that, he was clearly nursing a killer headache. He was doing that peculiar little head tilt again which was indicative of his ears ringing, not to mention the dark circles stamped beneath his eyes.

There were many reasons why Gordon shouldn't have been the one to stay with John. But equally, it had to have been him, for they were as alike as they were different. Besides, no one would have been able to talk Gordon out of it. But now he'd hit his limit and it was Scott's turn.

"Go to bed, Gords," he said firmly, so that his brother knew it was an order rather than a suggestion.

Gordon hesitated, but the decision was made for him as his body reminded him that he was still recovering. He favoured his left foot, overcompensating for the dizziness which left him off-balance.

"Bed," Scott repeated, softer this time. He caught Gordon's shoulder and squeezed. "You did good, but I've got it from here."

Gordon studied him. "Are you okay?"

"None of us are."

"Don't I know it." Gordon's laugh was cold, humourless, laced with exhaustion. He braced himself against the wall before taking a shaky step forward. "Make sure Johnny drinks some water before you crash for the night, yeah?"

Scott raised a brow. "Not my first rodeo dealing with a drunk brother." He relented. "Really, Gordon. It's okay. I've got this handled. Get some sleep."

"Aye, aye," Gordon mumbled with a lazy salute. Finch greeted him in the hallway and stayed close to his side as if sensing that he was sort of delicate at that moment and might need some reassurance -that dog was a wonder. And if his steps took him into the lounge to share a blanket with Virgil and Alan, then no one was surprised.

Scott was left with a very drunk John.

This was not the first time, but it was by no means a common occurrence. John rarely drank enough to pass the tipsy phase. His status as a total lightweight made him picky when it came to drink preferences. Once IR was founded he spent so much time in space that it made little sense to further reduce his already-limited coordination when he returned to the planet. He was normally a happy drunk, inhibitions dulled by liquor and resulting in several fond, if embarrassing, memories.

This occasion was very different.

Scott didn't think he'd ever seen John this drunk. On its own, this wouldn't have been a concern. He'd have coaxed his brother into downing a glass of water and left him to sleep it off in a dark room. But it had only been a day-and-a-bit since he had literally overdosed.

Scott was about to launch into orbit from pure worry. He couldn't judge his brother for finding solace at the bottom of a bottle, not when he'd resorted to the same strategy so many times over the years, but oh, he sort of wanted to throttle him for being such an idiot. But when he considered what had led John to this point, he couldn't bring himself to be angry.

He had a vague memory of Virgil saying something along the lines of John's always been protective of you in secret and that had never been clearer than today. Now his brother was paying the price for it. Scott had been in his shoes too many times to count – impulsive decisions made in the heat of the moment to protect another without considering the mental toll.

"Aw, shit, Johnny," he sighed, crouching down to rub John's back. "What've you gone and done to yourself? A drug overdose wasn't enough for you, was it? Decided to have a crack at alcohol poisoning too?" He let the fondness bleed into his voice. "Such an overachiever."

John let out a strange, choked sound, somewhere between a sob and a cough. He curled over his knees, trying not to gag. Light from the hallway caught his cheek and proved that his face was wet again. The struggle to hold back tears was a violent battle which left him trembling. He drew a ragged breath, revealing bloodied teeth where he'd bitten his lip. He looked so thoroughly miserable that it hurt to look at him.

"Come on," Scott coaxed, flattening his hand against John's upper back. "Let's get you fixed up."

John choked on the remains of a shattered laugh. "Can't."

"Can't what?"

"Fix me." The utter devastation in John's voice was painful. "S' no good. I'm no good. S'pposed to save lives. Made people feel safe. But I can't an' I'm sorry."

He clambered clumsily onto his knees and planted his hands on Scott's shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, eyes wide and welling with more tears which stripped his voice raw. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it safe. Should've killed him. Finished the job. But I didn't. I'm not a hero, but I don't wanna be a monster either. 'M'sorry Scotty."

"Hey, look at me." Scott slid his hand to cup John's neck, squeezing slightly until John finally met his searching gaze. "It's okay, John. I didn't want you to kill him. I want him dead, yes, but I don't want you to be the one to make that happen. It's too much. And as for being safe? It's the apocalypse. Nowhere's safe. So, one more threat doesn't really matter at this point. Revenge is a trick, anyway. What's done is done, little brother." He rested their foreheads together. "Time to move forward."

John practically tackled him in a fierce hug. Scott wouldn't have been surprised if he had cracked ribs, but he wasn't about to complain. He held John close, closing his eyes against tears of his own when he felt just how badly his brother was shaking.

John was never supposed to be a soldier. He was supposed to explore and wonder and discover all the beauty in the universe. He left fairy tales behind and found that magic in the stars but now he was here, trapped below ground while the world choked on radiation and decay and it wasn't fair.

"I can't lose you," John choked out, tucking his face into the crook of Scott's neck. "I keep almost losing you and I can't- Not you too. Don't leave me, Scott, please."

"I'm here."

Scott didn't let go, not once, not even when John's sobs sounded so agonised that it felt as if his heart was shattering.