One of Virgil's skills is catching his brothers when they try to hide injuries or illnesses. This is going to be a collection of short stories featuring our favorite medic and his reluctant patients.

(Note: I have absolutely no idea why I wrote this in first-person, present tense…it kind of just happened. Anyway…)

I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story.

1. You Can't Run, and You Can't Hide

My fingers run up and down the piano keys in a series of graceful arpeggios, filling in the space between songs as I try to decide what to play next.

Hushed voices sound in the hallway; if I were seriously working on a piece, I probably wouldn't have noticed them, but the arpeggios don't require much attention on my part. I strain my ears to listen in, something about the tone of the words catching my attention.

"We can't walk past there – Virgil's in there!"

"Dude, he's playing the piano. You know he doesn't pay attention to anything else while he's playing."

My eyebrows rise. Oh, really?

"C'mon, quit dawdling! We're almost to your room."

A shuffling sound, followed by a yelp of pain.

"Hey, take it easy!"

"Well, you're the one who wanted to get into hiding before Virgil could find out!"

I'm all ears now. I can think of a few objects my brothers have tried to hide from me over the years, but a person going into hiding usually means one of two things: damage to Thunderbird Two, or an injury acquired in an embarrassing manner – namely, one that has occurred on off-duty hours (injuries obtained on rescues generally seem to be less damaging to the ego, I've noticed, and are far more likely to be reported quickly).

Adding up all the evidence, I decide that this situation almost certainly falls into the injury category – and as the team medic, it is, of course, my duty to make sure the victim is thoroughly treated. They call me and Scott the Smother-Hens. The title totally fits Scott (and, okay, maybe just once in a while I may go a little overboard too…), but most of the time, it's not so much about the smothering for me – I just have fun catching them when they think they're getting away with hiding something.

I let my arpeggios drift to a halt, and wait for them to notice.

It takes them a moment, then I hear a shushing sound.

"Shh! He stopped playing! Do you think he heard?"

Well, duh! Maybe if your whispers were actually quiet, the whole sneaking thing would work better for you…

I leave my piano bench and stride loudly toward the door, enjoying the little flurry of activity this causes.

"He's coming! He's coming! Run!"

"Dude, I can't run– that's the whole point! Quick, help me to my room!"

"No way – you're on your own now! I refuse to be an accessory!"

"Traitor! Yellowbelly!"

Running footsteps sound, and by the time I step up to the doorway, Alan is alone in the hallway, balancing precariously on one foot, his shoe missing from the other foot and the ankle clearly swollen. A door slams somewhere in the distance.

Alan looks at me and gulps. "Hi, Virg," he says in a small voice.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorframe. "Hi, Alan. How's it going?" I like to give them a chance to 'fess up, mostly because they'll usually have one last go at pretending like everything is fine, even though it's perfectly obvious that it's not. I could write a book with the stories they've come up with.

Alan grimaces. I can see the wheels turning in his mind as he tries to come up with something to explain why he's standing there with one foot off the ground. After a moment, his shoulders slump – he's given up, probably distracted by his annoyance with Gordon for abandoning him.

"I twisted my ankle," he mutters sullenly.

"Doing what?"

"Running."

"From who?"

He looks at me like I'm crazy. "What do you mean, 'From who?' I was just running – you know, like, for exercise?"

I kneel down and carefully move his ankle around, ignoring his hiss of pain. I shrug. "Don't sound so incredulous – remember last month when Gordy got a black eye while you two were running from Scott after pulling that prank on him?"

A slight smile crosses his features. "Oh, yeah…that was a good one."

"The prank or the black eye?"

He considers this, then shrugs. "Both." He looks down at me and glares. "But this wasn't anything like that – I was just running on the beach, and I didn't notice a hole in the sand."

I stand up. "So why were you trying to hide it?" I pull one of his arms over my shoulder. "C'mon, I don't think it's broken, but I'd better X-Ray it to be sure. You're definitely off rescues for at least a couple days, in any case."

He glowers. "That's why. A little rest, ice and elevation, and it would have been fine. But no, you insist on poking, and prodding, and just generally going way overboard!"

"Well, it's my job to make sure," I tell him cheerfully. I honestly don't understand why they don't come to me on their own, considering the need for good physical condition on our job – but at least I'm nearly always able to catch them before it can spiral out of control.

We reach the infirmary. "Here we are!" I situate Alan on the table and get the X-Ray machine ready, careful to keep Alan in my peripheral in case he tries to make a break for it – even with one leg out of commission, he's a devious one.

His ankle isn't broken, but it's a bad sprain. I wrap it and hand him crutches. "You're off rescues for at least two days," I say. "Remember – rest, ice, elevation!"

"I could have told you that," he grumbles. "Oh, wait – I did!" He adjusts his crutches and clumps away awkwardly.

"You're welcome!" I call after him.

He just waves a hand in response. I smile – another brother caught and taught a lesson: you can run (well, maybe not literally…), but you can't hide!