There were some facts of life which not even the apocalypse could alter. One such example was Scott's hatred of medical examinations. It dated back as far as his early childhood; he'd disliked doctor's visits even at the tender age of seven by which point he had decided that the only time he'd ever willingly go to the hospital was to meet a newly born younger sibling.

The universe had clearly overheard his resolve and proceeded to rewrite his fate so that he seemed to spend more time in medical wards than could be considered… well, healthy.

The places were cursed. Just the idea of clinical walls and the stench of antiseptic filled him with dread. He could vividly recall sitting in the waiting room before his first medical evaluation for the USAF academy and being genuinely concerned that he might throw up before his name was called.

So, yes, he had a few issues. It wasn't as if that was a new revelation. It probably had something to do with being unable to control the outcome but hey, that was a theory for a therapist to investigate if he ever managed to speak to one. He had to fix the world first; no pressure or anything, jeez.

He leant back against the headboard and tried to focus on anything other than the medical scans projected above his knee. Grandma and Virgil were discussing the data in hushed voices as if he wasn't literally right in front of them.

He returned his attention to the window. Spring had well and truly arrived in a blossoming collection of sunshine and new life. Budding trees had burst into bloom and the gardens were a mosaic of fresh shoots. Gone were the cold shades of blue, white and black that had defined winter for so many weeks. Everything was vibrantly green and hopeful. He'd even developed a light tan again.

"-idiot," Virgil was saying as Scott tuned in just in time to catch the final word.

He snatched up the nearest projectile – a cushion with blue tassels – and tossed it at his brother's head.

"Who are you calling an idiot?"

"You know how to handle knee injuries. If you'd followed protocol, you wouldn't be in such bad shape now."

"Gee, thanks. That's so reassuring, Virg."

"Boys." Grandma's amused tone was laced with stern warning. She took a seat on the edge of the mattress by Scott's legs and planted a hand on his shin to keep him from moving. "Stay still. The scan isn't complete."

"As if you need a full scan to diagnose me."

"I'd like a full scan to confirm that diagnosis," she corrected and Scott tried to take comfort in the lack of urgency in her voice.

That meant good news, surely? The kind of news that came with steps forward and recovery plans and didn't mean that he'd screwed up his knee beyond repair.

Or maybe not. If he were entirely honest with himself, then he doubted the injury would be a simple fix. He'd been playing the part of an ostrich for too long, content to stick his head in the sand and pretend that it was just a bruise, a spot of inflammation that would fade with time.

In his defence, the pain wasn't constant. It flared up, especially after extensive exercise, but that was normal for any knee injury. Besides, it wasn't as if he'd had a choice. Like, oh sorry guys, I know there's a radiation storm and zombies chasing us but we've gotta stop for a while because my knee hurts a little bit. Yeah, right. So, Virgil could call him an idiot but what other option had there been?

A little voice in the back of his head grudgingly admitted that he should have had it checked out back at the Minnesota bunker. He certainly had no excuses as to why he hadn't mentioned it at the Sanctuary. But there had been so much else going on and his priorities had been tied up with his brothers and the world and he hadn't been doing as much intense running, so the pain had lessened.

It was only since they'd arrived in the UK – to the bitter cold that seemed to strike deeper than the chill found in Ontario although perhaps that was his imagination; Penny's manor had always been difficult to keep warm – that the sharp jolts of agony had returned. The sensation of something scraping within the joint had pushed even his high pain tolerance beyond his limits.

He could handle it in the heart of the action when adrenaline turned injuries to background static but it was creeping into his everyday life. He'd promised Virgil that he'd let him take a proper look at it weeks ago after the London expedition but had then been distracted by other issues which had seemed more urgent. But now Grandma was back, so he was unable to put it off any longer.

Plus, you know, there was a slightly possibility that he'd nearly collapsed in the hallway. Virgil's words, not his: collapse was such an exaggeration. His knee had wavered ever-so-slightly – a very minor buckle under his own weight – and Virgil had swept in to catch him before he could land on his ass in front of a very confused Fuse and a highly unimpressed Grandma who had ordered him upstairs for a proper medical check right this instant, young man, so don't think about escaping.

The hologram displays were tilted away from him so that he had to squint at their reflection to read them. The mirror was too far away to make out the details and sunlight prevented him from glimpsing them in the window, so he had to piece together the puzzle based off the clues offered by Grandma's tone and Virgil's expressions. His best guess so far was that it wasn't a serious condition but something he'd have to manage for the foreseeable future.

He hated sitting still for so long. It had been twenty minutes. The anxiety that he'd tried to keep under wraps was regaining strength, slithering under his skin in a cold wave. He flexed his hands and forced himself to relax, flattening them against the duvet cover so that he could feel soft cotton catch against the callouses on his palms.

"There are none of the markers which would indicate a fracture," Grandma mused, mostly under her breath but with a swift glance at Virgil to check that he was listening. "I'd expect to see a callus around the break if that were the case."

"I can walk and run on it," Scott chimed in, earning twin glares. "What? I'm just saying. It can't be that bad if I've been able to sprint from zombies."

Virgil just looked at him.

"That's a reflection on your pain tolerance and insane stubbornness rather than the severity of the injury and you know it. Hell, Gordon picked up on that back in the Minnesota bunker. He asked you how long you'd been in pain, remember? So, it was bad even then."

"It wasn't bad," Scott scoffed, which probably would have sounded a lot more convincing had he not been biting back a curse as Grandma probed his knee, manipulating the joint with an assessing stare that seemed to see right through him.

He clenched one hand in the duvet, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth. Pain wasn't a new development – Virgil had a point about that – but the sharp stab of fire through his leg despite Grandma's attempts to be gentle usually occurred when he'd pushed beyond his limits. He'd grown used to the constant ache so that it only bothered him as an afterthought which struck him on bad mornings when the pain snuck up on him with a fiercer bite and left him with a heightened sense of weariness.

The scans didn't take long to process. They were only intended as confirmation for what the primary data had already implied. Scott examined the holograms over Grandma's shoulder; familiar diagrams of the synovial joint; highlighted red and green imagery; a dark line which sliced through the picture.

He might not have been the ex-Olympian that Gordon was, but he'd done enough athletics to know what that was. He'd had a buddy on the track team with him in his sophomore year of high school who'd torn their meniscus badly enough to warrant surgery and a six-month course of PT.

The cartilage between the thighbone and the shinbone was theoretically capable of healing itself, provided that the tear occurred in the outer one-third. The inner two-thirds were tricker with reduced blood flow, requiring a surgical fix or else ran the risk of slipping into the actual joint.

Initially, he'd been lucky. The original injury had been a minor tear on the outer third which would very likely have healed on its own if he'd rested it and knocked back a couple of anti-inflammatories.

Only he hadn't. He'd taken the worst possible course of action: sprinted from zombies, fought off bandits, and walked long distances with only a meagre strip of fabric serving as a makeshift knee support because there'd been no way in hell that he was letting the others know he was technically injured. Also, he'd jumped onto the roof of that train and torn it again.

And left it untreated.

For months on end.

The effects of this ill-fated decision were painfully clear. Virgil enlarged the med-scan for a closer look and actually winced. Grandma tutted and remarked something uncomplimentary under her breath for which she would have made Alan tip the swear jar if he'd repeated it. Scott averted his gaze before he could be fixed with any pitying stares… or exasperated ones too for that matter.

Because he knew what those images meant. He knew how to read medical scans just as well as Virgil did and the data was irrefutable; reality was as bitter as an unripe lemon but it couldn't be denied.

The pain wasn't going to go away. It might get easier but it wouldn't get better. He'd pushed himself too far and for once his limits had chosen to punish him for it. He steeled himself against a surge of humiliating self-pity which smacked into a wall of fury at himself for ignoring his own knowledge. If he'd been sensible and cared for the injury, then he wouldn't be in this situation.

"There are surgical fixes," Virgil began hesitantly.

"It's the apocalypse," Scott cut him off and berated himself for snapping when Virgil flinched. He took a breath and tried to soften his voice. "Virg. It's fine. It's not that bad."

Virgil stared at him with something desperate in his eyes which could only be compared to grief. He dropped the holoprojector onto the windowsill and sank onto the bed. He stared at the creases across the duvet, unable to look at Scott.

"Your being in constant pain is not an acceptable option."

Scott went to reply then faltered as Virgil raised his chin and met his gaze. The words dried up and left him floundering.

They weren't just talking about the knee injury anymore; the conversation had run into silent depths that seemed impossible to navigate. Scott had been accepting pain – sometimes even welcoming it like an old acquaintance – for years as if it were his birthright and Virgil had been trying to teach him that he deserved better for just as long.

Grandma cleared her throat meaningfully. "There's a hospital on Mars."

"I don't like hospitals," Scott muttered, earning a rough chuckle as she patted his shin. "And it's Mars. That's not an option."

He held up a hand as they both went to protest.

"Not yet. I'm not saying it's off the table entirely, but I can't just leave. Let's give it a few months. At least wait until Brains and Ellis have the vaccine ready for distribution. It's not like this can get much worse, right?"

Virgil exchanged a long look with Grandma.

"That really depends on you, Scotty."

Grandma's smile was warm but her eyes were worried. She squeezed his shin, rubbing a circle with her thumb over the seam of his jeans. The fire in his knee had subsided to a dull ache again but the pain kept travelling up and down his leg and somehow, impossibly, her touch seemed to ease it.

"If you rest, reduce how often you put pressure on it, then it shouldn't get any worse," she continued. "That means no heroics. No more major missions. Stop flying rescues unless you stay in the cockpit. Otherwise, this will deteriorate until it develops into osteoarthritis."

There was a terse pause.

"Well," Scott commented, forcibly upbeat to hide the fact that it felt as if something had physically twisted in his chest at the words stop flying rescues. "That would definitely give Gordon more opportunities for old age jokes."

"This isn't funny, Scott." Virgil glowered at him. "If you insist on staying here until the vaccine rollout then it's going to be on my terms."

"You're not my boss."

"It's not a fucking joke."

"Christ, I know. I know."

Scott clawed a hand through his hair. There was a panicked, fluttery feeling in his lungs and he kept glimpsing the sadness in Grandma's eyes as if it hadn't been somewhat inevitable that he'd tear himself apart eventually. He'd poured so much energy into getting better and he'd been trying so, so desperately to change his way of thinking but he couldn't go back and amend his past of throwing himself into danger and collecting injuries as if enough pain could make up for the price of not being who everybody needed him to be.

And it was just- It was crushing, really. He was exhausted and angry at himself and he had to crack jokes about it because otherwise he'd shatter.

"I screwed up. Believe me, I get that. I could've… well, done anything, I guess. But I kept pushing because I was in a shitty headspace and maybe- maybe I wanted it to hurt. And now I have to live with the repercussions of that and I'm really fucking angry at myself for it. But it's not a case of just hopping over to Mars and letting a doctor go wild. I've got responsibilities here. People need us."

"Kid," Grandma said after a moment, sounding exasperated and fond in equal measures. Scott couldn't help but lean into her touch as she gripped his shoulder, amused by her insistence on calling him kid when in reality he'd never been one even as an actual child. Not after the avalanche, anyway. "You can't look out for anyone unless you look after yourself first."

Scott knocked his head back against the wall with a heavy sigh.

"I know."

He looked up in time to glimpse Virgil's doubtful expression.

"Hey, I'm serious. I'm trying to… You know. Be… better. This isn't me falling back on old habits. But I can't go to Mars yet. There's too much going on and we don't have a stable comm link beyond Five. We'd have to relay everything through EOS and that could get complicated. It's just the timing, right? It's not the time yet. But I'll listen to you about the rest of it. No more major missions, I hear you. Knee support, sure. Just… I can't leave yet. Virg, being realistic, you must know that."

There was another lengthy pause. Grandma sent Virgil a chiding look, complete with raised eyebrows. He scuffed his heels against the floorboards and Scott had a hard time trying to repress laughter; he hadn't seen his brother look so much like a scolded child in a long time.

"I know," Virgil conceded at last, albeit reluctantly. He exhaled in a rush, discarding the projected scans as he turned to face Scott with a tired smile. "Sorry. I know you're trying."

"It's a work in progress," Grandma swept in before Scott could cringe from the praise and take a leaf out of Gordon's book by making another joke. "So, we're in agreement? You'll follow our medical advice and then, when the time is right, you'll go without protest to Mars?"

"Sure."

Virgil glared at him.

"Okay," Scott amended. "What, d'you want me to swear on One or something?"

"Yes."

There was a mischievous gleam in Virgil's eyes.

"I'm not doing that."

"Do it. I dare you."

"How old are you? Five?"

"Six-and-three-quarters, actually."

Scott took Virgil's offered hand and hauled himself upright.

"Dumbass," he muttered affectionately, earning a light smack to his bicep.

Grandma planted her hands on her hips with a dramatic sigh. "You're as bad as each other. Get out of here. Better yet, drag your brother out of that comms hub and into the sun for once."

There were fewer people at the Creighton-Ward Survival Camp these days.

The majority had moved on to places with more readily available luxuries or bunkers which could offer chances at secure futures, roles of every nature from agriculture to data analysts to engineers and pharmacists. Others had developed their own homes within the gated communities established by the GDF in reclaimed suburbs along the coast.

Yet the manor didn't seem any less alive. If anything, a renewed energy ran through its walls, inexplicably lighter and coaxing life back to the land. Even the grass seemed greener although that was perhaps thanks to the very real effects of spring rather than a mental shift in attitudes. Still, the sight of three Thunderbirds watching over the property eased people into undeniable hopefulness.

But despite everything, Scott couldn't shake the fear that it was all futile. Everything that he had ever worked for – that anyone had ever prepared for – belonged in a future which no longer existed.

Even if they could get the vaccine to as many survivors as possible, there was no guarantee of a cure for those who had already turned. Brains and Grandma had continued their research along with the scientific department on Mars and that data had since been cumulated with the work of those on Earth but the idea of a vaccine for the infected remained a distant pipedream.

And that was before anyone considered the scale of the damage which had been wrought upon the planet. Satellite images and EOS's scans provided a rough outline but there was nothing like seeing the destruction firsthand. Scott had been discussing plans with the GDF about a scout mission further afield, but the priority had to be the people who they had already saved.

Year Two of the apocalypse had brought a fresh set of problems: dwindling supplies, resources becoming unusable, increased hygiene issues and the ever-pressing question of how the heck to manage the logistical side of a vaccine programme when over half the surviving population were out of radio contact. There were so many matters in need of resolution and each seemed more urgent than the last.

The UK GDF were still floundering, trying to follow a hierarchy that no longer existed. Canadian and American outposts were mildly more organised but tensions were simmering when it came to agreements on the distribution of supplies. Civilian safe zones no longer trusted the military and the military themselves kept talking over one another, unable to agree upon who was in charge.

So, collaboration was proving a lot harder in practice than it had sounded in theory and Scott was tired. There were video conferences every damn day and data to be analysed; communities to be assured and rescues to be run; vaccine programmes to be planned and the manufacturing process of those same programmes to be established; research into infected behaviour to be delegated; military operations to reinforce defences against zombies, scavengers and bandits; resource management and supply chain organisation; clean-up operations and infrastructure recovery…

…And somehow he'd ended up being one of the overseers. The GDF couldn't agree on any single person to be the top of their chain of command and so had instead elected a committee on which civilian safe zones had demanded there be a non-military figure to represent their interests. The Commander of International Rescue was the only person both groups listened to; Scott wasn't in charge exactly but he had a significant role which seemed to involve playing mediator most days.

Luckily, he had a very supportive team around him, not just his family but the friends they had collected along the way. Even so, it threatened to become overwhelming and sometimes he had to take a break. His past self would have balked at the idea but he'd gotten better at recognising crappy thought patterns and every other fun theory that had been raised in his chats with Grandma – which he was fully aware were essentially therapy sessions but he had yet to call her out on it.

So.

Time to drag John out of his lair – AKA the comms hub – and into the sun for a while before the clock summoned them inside again for their daily conference call.

Scott guessed that it was around four-PM – perhaps a little later, perhaps a little earlier – which gave them a good couple of hours. The air held a bite to it for March was still young and the British climate never truly warmed up until June but there was only a faint breeze stirring the apple trees and it was safe to sit out on the patio without a coat.

Virgil kept looking at him as they headed for the comms hub; quick, secretive glances unevenly spaced apart to avoid detection as if Scott couldn't sense the concern coming off his brother in waves. It was palpable like the pressure at the floor of an ocean trench and he rolled his shoulders self-consciously as though he could shake off Virgil's observant stare quite so easily.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're hovering."

"This isn't hovering." Virgil took a step closer until their shoulders brushed. He reached out to catch Scott's elbow as they reached the stairs. "Now this is hovering."

Scott batted him away. "Quit it."

"No."

"Virg, I swear to God…"

"Hey, you were the one who landed on your ass this morning."

"Except I didn't."

"Only because I caught you."

"Exactly."

Virgil's steps faltered as if he'd been taken aback by the simplicity of the word. It made perfect sense to Scott. He didn't need to consciously think about it; the pain was a stumbling block but falling was not a concern because he knew that Virgil would always catch him. It was a certainty, a fact of life, the reassurance that he'd never questioned. If anything, he was more concerned by the way that Virgil seemed shocked to learn that he had so much faith in him.

"Pain isn't a new development," Scott pointed out in a gentler tone than the casual, unaffected voice that he'd aimed for previously. "I can handle it. I've got the meds that Grandma brought back from Mars and a proper knee brace now."

Virgil still looked like a kicked puppy. "But you shouldn't have to handle it."

Scott shook his head with a fond smile.

"If you ever manage to invent a time machine then I won't stop you from going back and shouting at my past self. But until then-" He turned to face Virgil as they came to a halt outside the comms hub door. "-it's just another thing to live with. And hey, it could be worse."

Virgil planted a hand on the door to keep him from stepping inside. "How?"

"…I really don't think you want me to answer that. I was gonna make a very dark joke."

"I'm scared to ask."

"Then don't."

"But now it's going to bug me."

Scott didn't dignify that with an answer. Besides, it had been more of a teasing jibe than an actual question, an attempt to offset the concern that had driven a shard of tension between them. He couldn't figure out whether he was grateful for Virgil's open worry or irritated by it. In reality, he was probably just annoyed at himself. Emotions were fickle like that, so easily misdirected. He settled for casting his brother a fondly exasperated look then pushed past him to shove the door open.

He didn't knock. John had a sneaky way of arranging data to look more important so as to give himself an excuse for not leaving, so Scott had learnt better than to warn him. It wasn't as if privacy were a regular commodity nowadays anyway; hell, even the lock on the en-suite door was broken again and Alan's shrieks for Gordon to get out had echoed along the corridor before Virgil had had chance to fix the damn thing. So really, there was no need for John to react so dramatically.

The comms hub had changed since Three's return. For a start, a more apt title would be John's office as the majority of calls took place in one of the large spare rooms which had been converted to a conference hall of sorts. All of them crowded around an oval table with spaces for hologram figures and EOS's avatar, voice modulated to maintain the pretence that she was just another advisor.

The comms hub on the other hand had undergone a transformation into a conspiracy theorist's bunker. It looked like something plucked out of an X-Files episode with maps and photographs and paper diagrams pinned to the walls so that the foam soundproof panels were no longer visible. Newspaper articles and GDF reports dated pre-Z-Day were linked together with red string, covering the window so that the room was filled with weak, yellowish light.

John sat in a rotatable desk chair at the centre of his web wearing the same sweatpants and hoodie that he'd been living in for the past forty-eight hours with a pair of headphones jammed over his ears so that his hair stuck out at odd angles. He showed no signs of having noticed their entrance, engrossed in his data and gesturing wildly as if interacting with some invisible display screen.

"Uh, Scott?" Virgil began hesitantly, reaching for Scott's arm. "Maybe you shouldn't-"

Scott elected to ignore this warning and spun John's chair around to face him. John let out a startled screech not dissimilar to a cat getting its tail caught in a closing door and instinctively threw a fist.

Scott ducked before his brain could catch up with his reflexes. The punch flew into an unsuspecting Virgil who had been standing right behind him, connecting with an audible smack.

There was a long, awkward pause.

"Ow," Virgil deadpanned, rubbing his jaw with an offended look. "Jeez, John. Your situational awareness needs some work."

"Hey, I pulled that punch at the last minute," John protested, still ruffled as he caught his breath, shoulders hunched defensively and headphones at a rakish angle. "It wasn't my fault. Blame Scott."

There was a strange little inflection when John spoke his name that knocked Scott's Big Brother instincts into overdrive. There was definitely some sort of scheme going on and Virgil appeared to be in on it.

John yanked his headphones down so that they fell around his neck.

"Can you leave now?"

"Nope," Scott declared merrily, swooping forwards to catch the armrests before John had chance to swing the chair back to the desk. "Doctor's orders – we've gotta drag you into the sun for a while."

"I'm not a plant," John muttered, head bowed to avoid eye contact.

That in itself wasn't unusual, but he seemed intent on hiding his face and Scott wanted to know why. An age-old fear leftover from their high school days reared its head – back when John used to hide bruises and black eyes and other such injuries to keep Scott from going after the culprits and consequently getting into trouble himself – which was ridiculous because no one at the manor would lay a finger on him and yet Scott couldn't stop worrying what if.

Behind them, Virgil shifted from one foot to the other. "So, uh, maybe we should, um…"

Let it be known that Virgil was quite possibly the worst liar known to mankind and so asking him to help keep a secret was a terrible decision on John's part.

"Look at me," Scott demanded, tightening his grip on the armrests as he crowded closer. "John."

"I'm busy."

"You're busy, I'm busy, we're all damn busy, now look at me."

Something in his voice must have struck a chord for John finally raised his chin. There was a distinct note of defiance in his expression but that was a minor detail that Scott disregarded. The important change was his eyes, now a vivid sci-fi blue so bright that they looked as if they should glow. John blinked away holograms visible to only him, then reached up to shove Scott back a few paces.

"You got new contacts," Scott commented a little breathlessly.

John pushed himself upright in the chair.

"Brains started working on them as soon as he finished Gordon's hearing aids. I didn't want to… We didn't think…"

"Scott," Virgil murmured, taking a step closer.

Scott swallowed, then remarked quietly, "They're not green."

John stared at him for a long minute. Incredulity warred with genuine sadness in those sharply blue eyes before he set aside his headphones and leant forward, bracing his elbows against his knees.

"Of course not. I would never do that to you. How could you think I'd consider doing that to you? I wasn't even sure how you'd feel about me wearing them in the first place, let alone in the same shade as- God, Scott. For someone who's supposedly intelligent, you can be a real idiot at times."

"Only sometimes?"

John's apprehensive expression melted into a smile.

"Most of the time actually, but I was trying to be nice." He twisted his chair to face Virgil. "What happened to my five-minute warning?"

"Your what?" Scott interjected as Virgil made some pitiful attempt at an excuse.

John snatched up a pen and pointed it at Virgil. "He was supposed to warn me if you were going to come down here so that I could take out my contacts before you arrived."

"Exactly how long were you planning on keeping them a secret?"

"Not sure. It's been a week. I would have told you eventually. Probably. I was just waiting for the right time. I didn't want to spring it on you in case it triggered bad memories."

Scott raised a brow. "The contacts aren't the issue. They never were. It was the person wearing them who caused spirals and that fucker is history now. But the contacts are… I'm okay, so you can stop looking at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"You definitely are." He relented with a sigh. "Look, John. The crucial difference is that I trust you. Are you planning on trying to kill me at any point? No. It's fine."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Fratricide sounded very tempting when you used up all the hot water this morning."

Scott grabbed John's wrists and hauled him out of the chair.

"C'mon, you little shit. Time to get your vampire ass into the sun."

John tried to free himself to no avail. "You sound like Gordon."

"Hell no, I'm older. If anything, Gordon sounds like me."

Virgil trailed after them, still nursing his bruised jaw. "That's a fair point actually."

"Of course it is. I'm not like anyone, y'all are like me." Scott hooked an arm around Virgil's neck and pulled him closer with an obnoxious laugh. "I'm the blueprint, baby."

"You're insufferable," John corrected, ducking out of range. "You're also slow."

"No," Virgil cut in before Scott could launch into a sprint. "You're banned from running, remember? Unless you want me to ship you off to Mars early?"

"I'm disowning both of you," Scott grumbled. "John, you're annoying. And Virgil, you helped him to lie to me."

"It wasn't a lie," Virgil complained plaintively. "It was… It was just… You know. Not immediately telling you about the contacts. And Brains agreed to keep it quiet too."

Scott gave him a good-natured shove.

"Throwing your boyfriend under the bus? Shocking behaviour. God, you used to be so nice before the apocalypse."

"Shut up," Virgil muttered.

John came to an abrupt halt. "You didn't deny it."

"That I was nicer before the apocalypse? I feel like that's a given for just about everybody."

"What? No. Not the- You didn't deny the boyfriend comment. Did you finally make it official?"

Virgil scuffed the floor with the toe of his boot. "…I'm so uncomfortable with this conversation. Can we switch the subject?"

"Oh my god," Scott declared gleefully. "That's a yes!"

John gave a solemn nod. "Definitely sounded like it."

"I hate you both."

"No," Scott crowed, looping an arm around Virgil's shoulders before he could flee. "You really don't. You love us. We're great." He clapped a hand to Virgil's bicep. "I'm so happy for you. Really."

"Oh Christ, don't make it sappy." John backed away from them with a mock shudder. "Scott, if you try to give an emotional speech then I will actually launch myself back into orbit. I already want to gouge my own eyes out whenever I have to see you look at Marisa. You're like a lovesick puppy, it's embarrassing. At least Virgil acted on his feelings. Admittedly, it took him years, but still."

Scott exchanged a look with Virgil which read as I can't chase him but you can.

Virgil let out an ominous chuckle. "Hey, Johnny?"

Scott's sunny smile held a hint of pure evil. "You'd better start running."

March brought an early heatwave, not sweltering temperatures but a tender warmth that coaxed the land back to life. The hills grew new coats, sweeping slopes of young green dotted with white daisies and the merry yellow faces of buttercups.

Tree branches bowed to the sky, heavy with thick blossoms and budding leaves. Birdsong filled the air along with the cold breath of a northern breeze. The vegetable patches were prepared for new seeds and a fair distance away, beneath the protective canopy of an oak tree, the graves where they had buried the bodies of the infected were covered in a delicate shroud of daffodils.

Scott privately thought that the world had never looked as beautiful as it had done since humanity had learnt of life's fragility. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe he was the one who had changed. He'd assigned so little value to his own life for so long that he'd lost sight of the worth of everything which came with it. So yes, he was stressed and had more responsibilities stacking up than he'd shouldered even pre-Z-Day, but he'd made it a priority to stop and appreciate life every so often.

If the apocalypse had taught him one thing, it was that trying to do everything alone was impossible. It felt wrong to let Virgil pick up the abandoned notes on proposed constructions of a new safe zone while Scott got to just sit around in the sun for an hour, but what was the point in struggling to create a better world if he had no energy to live in it afterwards?

Although to be fair, today's break from paperwork had a purpose. Multiple purposes, actually. He wasn't just looking for Alan to ensure he would be kept out of the way of certain birthday related schemes that were going on upstairs but also to check in with the kid, to talk, catch up on life.

So, Scott left the paperwork in Virgil's capable hands and ventured downstairs. There were a few vaguely familiar faces in the main kitchen – Fuse offered an earnest smile – but it was approaching lunchtime and the majority had already congregated in the mess hall. It left the gardens empty; they were quiet enough for a private conversation without a need for whispers.

Alan was easy to track down. He was sat with his back against the trunk of a gnarled apple tree, knees drawn up to prop his sketchpad against them. The sun had burnt off most of the dew but it was still damp in the shade, not that he seemed to have taken much notice.

There were stars scribbled on his sneakers again and a smiley face scrawled on the left cuff of his jeans. He had wired earphones jammed into place and an old-fashioned phone at his side, music turned up so high that it was possible to hear it aloud. One pen stuck out from behind his ear like a cigar whilst the other drew careful lines across the paper.

He attempted to scrub away a mark on the page with his sleeve. It took several seconds for him to realise that it was a shadow cast by the dappled sunlight and not smudged ink. Scott tried not to laugh as he observed these antics, struck once again by the similarities between Alan and John at times; both gifted – or cursed, depending on your viewpoint – with the ability to focus on a project so whole-heartedly that the rest of the world faded out of existence until it was completed.

Alan finally noticed his presence.

"Oh, hey." He yanked out an earphone, squinting past the sunrays. "What's up?"

"Nothing much." Scott nodded at the empty space beside him. "Can I sit or are you busy?"

"Uh, not really. Nothing that can't wait, anyway." Alan snapped the cap back onto the pen and tossed it aside. "Are you okay? Is someone dying?"

Scott raised his brows. "Why do you always jump to the worst-case scenario?"

"Dude. I literally have diagnosed anxiety. Jumping to the worst-case scenario is kind of my thing."

"Don't call me dude. And I'm fine by the way, I just wanted to catch up." Scott stretched out his legs, leaning back against the apple tree until he could feel the hills and valleys of the trunk through his shirt. "I haven't had chance to check in with you for a while."

Alan's expression cleared with new understanding.

"Oh. Oh. I'm okay, Scotty. Not like one hundred percent fine, but I'm doing better. It's weird as hell having therapy with Grandma of all people but I think it's helping, so, you know. That's a thing."

Scott studied him, trying to be subtle about it. Alan was still sharp but in a way which seemed strong rather than brittle, a steppingstone to recovery that marked him as a survivor. He didn't have to bundle himself in three layers of hoodies anymore and he didn't hide away as often.

"And…?" Scott began cautiously, unsure of where the invisible boundaries lay.

Alan read the question off his face.

"I'm eating. I swear. It's not, uh…"

He ghosted a hand across the back of his neck.

"It's not perfect. But it's easier. I dunno. It just… It takes time, right? It's supposed to take time. And it takes so much effort some days. But hey, I'm trying. And today is good. There are more good days than bad days now, so, you know. Those bad days suck but I wanna see what all the good days are gonna be like."

In the time that had passed since Alan had confessed to the events that had gone down in the Minnesota bunker, Scott had surmised that it wasn't the full story. It didn't take a genius to figure out that there were far more graphic details which Alan had left out. Scott suspected that the only other person who knew everything was Gordon; perhaps that was why he'd developed such a protective streak over Alan since their arrival in the UK.

In another lifetime, Scott might have been hurt, taken it as an implication that he'd done something wrong, chosen some decision that had made Alan unwilling to confide in him. But in this reality, he knew better.

Hell, there were things that his younger self had sworn to never tell Jeff. It was just a fact of life: teenagers didn't tell their parents everything. It wasn't a reflection on him or on Alan or their closeness. It just was and Scott had come to accept that. Frankly, as long as Alan was happy and healthy, then he could keep his secrets.

Scott nudged the sketchbook. "What've you been working on?"

Alan lit up.

"Wait, haven't I told you about this yet? Okay, oh my god, so Theo and I had this idea, right? Because so many people don't know first-aid. They don't even know the basics which seems crazy but that's not the point. Or, well, it sort of is the point, I guess? Anyway, infections are actually a bigger threat than zombies these days, so I figured we should teach people how to properly care for injuries and-"

He snatched up the sketchbook and flipped it open. The pages were faded by sunlight, warped slightly by ink and the indents of hard-pressed pencils. The spine was worn so that it flopped lifelessly in his hands; he smoothed one of the pages and held it out for Scott to see.

"-here, see? First aid lessons are easy enough with adults but kids should know too, so Theo and I thought we'd create a comic strip for them. Just to teach them the basics, y'know?"

Scott leafed through the book slowly. The images were clear and concise, well-thought out to appeal to a wide range of ages. Even complicated field medicine was explained in a series of short panels that would make sense to younger kids should they find themselves in trouble.

He looped an arm around Alan's shoulders and impulsively tugged him closer.

"This is incredible."

Alan ducked his head self-consciously. "I figured that the school at the Sanctuary could make use of it even if no one else is interested."

"Hey, don't sell yourself short." Scott softened his voice. "Allie, this is…"

"Pretty cool?"

"Very cool." He was distracted by a resurgence of music blaring from Alan's earphones as a new song came on. "What is this?"

"The music?" Alan offered him the second bud. "Wanna listen? It's not even my playlist – EOS is refusing to download any of my stuff until I apologise for calling her an overgrown toaster… don't ask – so I'm stuck with Conrad's. He listens to songs from way back in like… I don't even know when this came out. 2020s, something like that? Anyway, it's actually good."

"It sounds like a kid's nursery rhyme. Orange Juice. How good can it possibly be?"

Alan dangled the spare earbud in front of Scott's nose. "Listen and find out."

They sat in silence for a while, just listening to the song and the rustle of leaves around them and the patter of paws as Finch trotted across the lawn. Her bandana – currently a bright yellow one, the same shade as a sunny daffodil – was freshly washed and still smelt faintly of the peppermint soap that Kayo's latest rescuees had gifted her as a thank you. Finch turned around a few times to find a comfortable spot, then flopped down to rest her chin on Alan's knees.

"I miss my dragons," Alan mentioned out of the blue. He threaded his fingers through Finch's fur. "I love Finch. She's fantastic. But I miss those lizards too. Conrad said some kid is looking after them - Paul something? - so they're in good hands. But still. Hey, where is Conrad?"

"Uh," Scott said, knowing fully well that Conrad had been enlisted by Kayo who in turn had teamed up with Gordon, Jasmin and Theo to prepare an impromptu birthday party. "Helping Kayo with Shadow, I think. She wanted his opinion on one of the nav systems."

"Why Conrad? Why not Brains? Or Virg?"

"Virgil is handling my GDF paperwork and Brains is busy working on the vaccine."

Thankfully, Alan accepted the excuse without further questions. He busied his hands in Finch's fur again, head tipped back to glimpse snatches of sky through the tree canopy.

Scott pushed himself to his feet. "Want to go for a fly?"

"For real?"

"Clear skies. No crosswinds. Seems a shame to waste it."

Alan's eyes went wide with delight. "Like, right now?"

"Why not?" Scott offered him a hand. "C'mon, kid. I'll even let you pilot for a while."

"For-"

"-Not for take-off."

Alan caught his hand and staggered upright, grinning to rival a Chesire cat. "Let's go!"

Sometimes, Scott missed the days of pure survival. Not the threats posed by bandits or the hunger pangs or the dizzying headrushes that accompanied dehydration and he sure as hell did not miss the rotters, but the simplicity of it.

He stared down at the report – pages upon pages of repetitive bullshit – and silently questioned how he'd ended up overseeing a GDF project. He had not signed up for babysitting the military.

The words swam and he forced himself to blink. The tension that had taken root in his neck over three hours earlier had migrated into the base of his skull and was now curling around his temples.

He wanted to cut the transmission and let them all get on with it. How would they cope if he suddenly got struck down by a rotter? They'd survive. He cast another longing look at the window where laughter echoed up from sunset-stained gardens.

"Respectfully," a sour-faced man drawled in the sort of voice which implied exactly zero respect, "I just don't see how that's viable. Why can't we leave people in bunkers? They're easy to defend."

Kayo had been twirling a butterknife between her fingers. Now, she dropped it onto the conference table with an audible clang that silenced the room. Satisfied that she had their undivided attention, she leant forward in her chair and stated icily,

"And how is that sustainable? We're trying to build infrastructure for the future and you're telling us to… what, exactly? Not bother? What is your plan? To have humanity live in bunkers permanently?"

"I never said-"

"-You-"

"-Twenty-five years down the line-"

"-Fifty times our current capacity-"

Every voice rose higher as suddenly everyone was talking over each other. Scott pinched the bridge of his nose and repressed the urge to shout. Instead, he gestured for EOS to stick the callers on mute. Across the table, Kayo fell abruptly silent, fists clenched around the rim of the table.

"This is ridiculous." She turned a furious glare on him. "Why are you letting them get away with this?"

"Get away with…? Kayo, this isn't my job! I'm supposed to be representing civilian safe zones, not playing referee between GDF divisions. It's not my call. What do you want from me? For me to just order them around as if I'm some kind of unelected president?"

Kayo's lips twitched with a repressed smirk.

"Maybe you should hold an election. People would vote for you. We could make it like a little quiz - who would you rather have making decisions about your future? The GDF with their known history of screw-ups or the Commander of International Rescue?"

"I'm serious."

"I mean, I wasn't, but now that I think about it…"

"Kayo."

She ran a hand through her hair. "I don't know."

"Let's pick this up again tomorrow then. We're not getting any further with it tonight, that much is obvious." Scott cast another glare at the report. "And I need to get John's opinion on this because if I'm right then it's a non-starter anyway. Their math is wrong. By a substantial amount."

"Of course it is," Kayo muttered. "Why are we even working with these idiots?"

"Because they have all the resources and we can't rebuild the world without those."

"And they can't rebuild without us."

"Exactly." Scott levelled her with a deadpan stare. "Teamwork makes the dream work, right?"

She let out an undignified snort. "What crappy leadership book did you pull that from?"

"Hopefully one that got lost to the apocalypse." He reached for the unmute button. "Ready?"

By the time he had soothed ruffled feathers and actually ended the call, sunset had mostly turned to dusk. He stumbled outside, half-blinded by his attempt to yawn and stretch at the same time. April showers had plagued most evenings over the past week, but this one remained obstinately golden and he was determined to get some fresh air before the night chill set in.

A better resolution would have been to get a good night's sleep, he reflected as he dropped down to sit on the steps, stifling another yawn. He could've crashed there and then regardless of the goosebumps forming under his hoodie or his brothers' raised voices as Gordon and Alan tackled one another onto the grass. He rubbed his knuckles against his eyes and turned to see the real reason why he'd bypassed the bedroom and made a beeline for the patio instead.

"Wow," Marisa commented, repressing a wince.

"That bad, huh?"

"I've seen you look worse."

"On which occasion? When we first met and I was still recovering from nearly dying or when I didn't shower for God-knows-how-long in the Minnesota bunker?"

Marisa's smile was warmer than the amber glow that still graced the clouds. She tucked herself against his side and reached up to smooth his hair back from his face. He'd been running his hands through it all afternoon, trying to bite back comments about GDF stupidity, so it was bound to be a nest of tangles, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"You just look very tired, that's all."

"Yeah, well." He stifled another yawn in the crook of his elbow. "Blame the GDF. They can't agree on anything. It's exhausting and we never get anywhere."

Realisation dawned on him: he'd somehow ended up discussing his own problems again. Sure, those problems affected humankind as a whole, but that wasn't the point. Marisa had an uncanny ability to deflect all concerns and redirect conversations so that people forgot they had ever been concerned about her in the first place.

The tactic probably would have worked on anyone else, but Scott had Kayo for a sister and so knew better. Marisa had been quieter over the past couple of weeks; the sad, desolate sort of quiet that walked hand-in-hand with grief and sought out solitude to let every memory rush in.

She'd done a good job of hiding it, but Scott had experienced enough sadness in his life to recognise it. He was intimately acquainted with its lies, with how it coaxed a person away from those who loved them until it got them alone and finally revealed its claws, not a friend but a monster.

He reached for her hand; linked their fingers; traced the scars left by the apocalypse over her knuckles; felt the flutter of her pulse against his wrist.

"You're not obligated to tell me," he murmured, "And I won't push. But if you feel like talking about it, then I want to listen."

Marisa took a sharp little breath but said nothing.

For several minutes, they sat in silence. The sky was a patchwork quilt; clouds stretched to mere threads; soft lilac and peach woven together as the moon crept out to paint the hills silver.

A murmuration of starlings danced back-and-forth in the fading light; Scott swore he could feel the breeze from their wings. He recalled a long-ago conversation between Gordon and John about the lack of wildlife and considered the possibility that the planet was beginning to heal, that ecosystems were adapting, that life would always persevere even against impossible odds.

"I miss my parents."

Marisa's fingers flexed slightly, skimming his palm as she tightened her grip. Her voice was rough with the threat of tears. The confession hung in the air between them.

"It's my mother's birthday today. She pretended to hate it when we made a fuss, but she loved it. She had these- these really expressive eyes. She could never hide her emotions, because you could always see how she truly felt in her eyes. My dad used to call her Bambi, like the Disney movie."

She shook her head with a damp chuckle.

"The cruise was my idea. It was their wedding anniversary, twenty-five years. They hadn't taken a vacation in years, so I encouraged them to go, to do something special for just the two of them. They were concerned about Jasmin because it was so close to the start of semester, but I told them not to worry, that I'd look after her. I only lived a few blocks away, but she was so excited to stay with me and we saw them off at the airport. They were so happy, Scott. They had no idea."

"They might still be-"

"They're not."

Marisa turned a tearful look on him and the conviction on her face drove a sharp stab of pain into his chest. For all she had talked of her mother's inability to hide her emotions, Marisa had those same expressive eyes.

"I can feel it. I know it doesn't make sense, but I can feel their absence. They're gone." Her voice trailed into a whisper. "They're gone."

"Marisa."

"I just… I don't-" She swallowed, pressed the back of her free hand to her mouth, lowered her head to hide the tears that had collected on her lashes. "I don't want to forget them."

Scott's immediate instinct was to reassure her. He could have referred to his own first-hand knowledge that while memories did fade, they didn't vanish, not entirely. It was like an old painting left out in the sun; the colours grew muted but the image was still recognisable.

He could recall one of those last evenings before they'd lost Jeff; crowded around the barbecue; shrieks of laughter from the pool; frothy foam spilling over his wrist as he handed a new beer to his father; Jeff's ridiculous flamingo shirt damp with chlorinated water as Gordon's cannonball into the deed end sent a tidal wave over all those standing nearby.

The memory was worn by time but Scott could still remember the details even if the saturation had been lost.

"You won't forget them," he said eventually, staring at the sky as the starlings spilled into a new pattern of exotic flight. "You might not remember everything, but the important things? They'll stick around. And if it helps at all, EOS has access to internet archives, so we can find your old photos."

Marisa huffed a damp laugh. "That sounds like a major breach of data protection."

"Oh yeah, it definitely is, but EOS and John have always seen the law as more of a guideline."

"Can they really get my family videos back?"

"Definitely. Want me to ask?"

"If that's okay?"

"I'll talk to EOS tonight."

"Thanks." Marisa inhaled deeply, voice wavering as she continued, "Really. Thank you."

Scott squeezed her hand, unable to speak for fear of what he might say. Words weren't his speciality; he didn't know how to translate his feelings and so had to trust her to read between every line he never said. How else could he explain the thoughts in his head? Admit that even after all this time, vulnerability was still an adrenaline rush that he loved and feared in equal measures?

He entertained a distant, impossible idea of another lifetime; one without zombies; one in which cities still stood and the planet still glittered at night; late summer nights in New York, blinds fluttering in a warm breeze through open windows, music mixing with the purr of urban chaos, Mari encouraging him to dance, drunk on cheap wine and affection, unknowable to all those outside the golden glow of the apartment, their own castle; something new; something written centuries earlier.

"Scott?" Marisa asked, lifting her head from his shoulder. "What the hell are your brothers doing?"

A glance up revealed that his sister was also involved. Kayo had dragged some kind of metal trashcan outside which Gordon had filled with various garden debris, helped by Alan's additions of dead leaves and twigs and whatever else he found that could be used as kindling. Now, the three of them stood around their makeshift bonfire and let out a series of loud whoops as it went up in flames.

The glow of firelight spread across the grass, fighting back against the darkness. Stray sparks floated into the sky like fireflies. Finch leapt up at them, trying to catch them, tail wagging as Alan's laugh echoed around the garden. The smell of woodsmoke filled the air; Scott could practically taste it.

"Ready?" Kayo asked, voice carried on the breeze.

Gordon, who had been crouched at Finch's side, watching the glow dance across his outstretched hands, stood back up.

"Hell yeah."

Alan's grin faltered. "I…"

"Do it." Gordon slung an arm around his shoulders. "Go on. I dare you."

"You don't have to," Kayo relented, "But I think you'd feel better if you did."

Alan stared into the rising flames, hissing, writhing creatures which longed to consume everything in their path. Their light seemed oddly gentle when it reached him, petting the stars on his shoes and turning his hair gold. He physically shook himself out of his thoughts and turned to Kayo.

"Let's do this."

Gordon let out another delighted whoop and flung his arms up. "Hell yeah!"

Kayo retrieved a worn baseball bat, scarred from past use. She had given it up after Virgil had told her about the Minnesota bunker and it hadn't seen the light of day since. Alan shivered when she handed it to him, but tightened his grip, jaw clenched with determination.

"Burn it," Gordon stage whispered, crooking his fingers to give his shadow devil horns. "It's our sacrifice."

Alan frowned. "Are you sure you shouldn't be the one doing this?"

"Nope." Gordon shoved his hands into his pockets with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm not the one with a weird guilt complex. C'mon, it's like free therapy."

Kayo's voice softened into an encouraging tone. "Burn it, Allie."

Alan squared his shoulders, gave the bat a final glare, and plunged it into the flames. A torrent of sparks flooded into the sky as the fire engulfed it, their hunger never fully sated.

Wood cracked and cackled. Alan's shoulders slumped, silhouetted against the flames. Gordon tousled his hair, jolting out of reach as Alan made to elbow him. Kayo swept into the middle, wrangling them like naughty kittens, one under each arm to prevent them from squabbling.

Together, they watched the baseball bat burn to ashes.

Gordon ghosted his fingertips across his scar, mostly hidden by his hair.

"You okay?" Alan asked quietly.

"Yeah." Gordon exhaled in a rush. "For once. You?"

"I'm… good." Alan blinked as if surprised by his own words. "I'm actually good."

Kayo craned her neck to glimpse the final sparks fade into the night air. "I'm proud of you both."

"Wait." Gordon gave a theatrical gasp. "Did you just…? Did you just admit to having emotions?"

"Oh, I'm never saying it again."

"Too late, Tan, you already said it."

"I regret everything."

Alan ducked his head with a laugh. "Man, I love you guys."

Gordon trailed off mid-sentence. "Hey, Allie?"

"Yeah?"

"It's done. It's burnt. It's over. You- We get to move on."

Alan rocked back on his heels, watching the first stars creep into the sky.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Time to move on."