Disclaimers: Thunderbirds, in all their incarnations, are the brainchild of Gerry and Sylvia Anderson and their people. Approach the altar of their brilliance with reverence, preferably with a bottle of tequila and a dollar bill. Also, any bastardized quotes/lyrics you find belong to the people they belong to who aren't me. This story is rated T/M for military-grade language (lots of F-bombs dropping, people), but that's about it, and Gen because I don't do anything else. There aren't any TAG spoilers, but this story does connect with the rest of my Tbirds stories, starting with He Is, They Are, so expect film and series spoilerage. If you haven't read my others, you might miss some inside jokes/stories. This story takes place about six(ish) years after the film and He Is, They Are, so age everybody up appropriately.

As always, thank you for your time. Even if you're shy like me and don't comment, your time alone is most welcomed and appreciated. Enjoy! — Six

Picnic

by That Girl Six

When he was fourteen, Gordon got caught in his Speedos without a towel when an EF4 tornado dropped out of the sky. Because Mother Nature was having an Eh, what the hell kind of day, the monster jawed out two of the four wings of the high school before moving on to play with the shops on Main Street. The devastation had been ugly. Twisted metal, strangling electrical wires, and concrete dust fog marched right out of John Connor's Judgment Day nightmare, but no lives were lost. An elderly couple found Gordon's English Humanities class's papers on The Great Gatsby, still bound in their thick red rubber band, in the peony bushes lining the front of their house in the next town twenty miles away. The orchestra director's checkbook was recovered by a drugged out twit of a girl with a hankering for the spa. She got eighteen months in prison orange (spread out over five years) for her meditation candle and seaweed scrub spree.

Buildings all crooked and exposing their insides like that school, with half the structure just gone for no real reason? Totally creeped him out. It probably sounded irrational, but yeah, some random guy with his guts bursting out of him he could handle. Shove those intestines back in, sure. Just keep the hands in there — hang in there, buddy, it's not as bad as you think — and get the guy wherever he needed getting. Got a bone trying like hell to break through the skin? Gordon had the hands and good humor to deal with it. Easy stuff. But Gordon didn't have enough hands to keep insides on the inside and outsides on the outside with a building. There were simply too many guts to watch to make sure they didn't bleed out all over the damn place.

Heebie jeebies, man. Yeesh. Every damn time.

This one today had touched down around 1600 CST, leaving a whole bunch of kids in after school clubs trapped in a school old enough it probably shouldn't be standing. Gordon had no idea if their parents were part of the groups huddled around the hill perimeter of the added-on Winchester Mystery House buildings. Scott's flyover in Thunderbird One had told them that a good hunk of this town, too, was gone, along with a lot of parents, kids, grandparents, friends, strangers, everybody. Homes, businesses, parks, and trucks, all gone. Trees were tied in knots in the tantruming hands of a howling toddler at a hundred and sixty-some miles an hour. A boat docked in a tree down at the bottom of the hill. Pompeii probably looked like a vacation spot to these people now.

But International Rescue was International Rescue, Gordon was Gordon, and he was working up to getting pumped. Into the exposed wire guts he had to go, admiring what was left of the high school of whatever Minnesota podunk town they were in. (At least, he thought it was Minnesota. Virgil had the keys to 'Two, so if he said Minnesota, well, good enough.) So what if the structure looked like Hades's pet hellhounds had used this school for a chew toy? He'd managed to survive this mess without their 'birds the last time. Piece of cake this time.

If nothing else, know your enemy, right? Tornadoes and cocked-to-the-gills concrete structures, they were practically old buddies. Pals, even. He should be sitting at home making friendship bracelets or whatever it was kids did these days to equate Sticks and Stones.

Over by Mobile Control, it was clear Gordon's nerves hadn't gone unnoticed. Scott and John didn't need any help falling into Smother Twins mode, their powers well and truly activated and tractor-beamed on Gordon, sucking him into their needful delusions. Dorks. They rock-paper-scissored which one of them got to be his new best battle buddy instead of monitoring Mobile Control.

Seriously? He knew they had the best of intentions, and sure, they all remembered far too well what it was like getting Gordon to sleep those first few weeks after his tornado experience (and every single one after). They each had their quirks about which jobs they thought they had to protect each other from — Scott would never have the corner market on that, his protestations and nickname to the contrary — and Gordon was willing to admit this job would be a lousy one for him. They were protecting themselves and their circadian rhythms as much as him this time. And yet.

So he probably shouldn't have been so surprised when Virgil one-upped them both by simply smacking Gordon upside the head, hooking his thumb over his shoulder, and taking him by the elbow to walk the ramp of the orange hallway. They were almost around the first pile of rubble in the demolished four way stop before they heard the sputtering.

"Virgil," Scott warned.

Virgil threw his arm up over his head, snapping a salute from elbow to hand once. He slid his eyes toward Gordon, a warning to keep his trap shut or make him regret getting in his way. Man, these two. If he wasn't so uneasy about going into the wretched concrete guts, Gordon might have thought a little more about taking sides and turning around to stick his tongue out at Scott along the way.

Then again, what's the fun of a little brotherly high school drama if you can't stick your tongue out at your big brother?

Gordon tap-danced backwards a few feet, scissoring his legs like that frog alien thing in Spaceballs. Instead of waving a cane in his hand, he let both his middle fingers stand in. "Hello, my baby, hello, my darlin'," he sang as quickly as he could before Virgil yanked him behind the rubble.

"Regression, thy name is Gordon?"

Gordon stuck his tongue out at Virgil, too, so he wouldn't feel left out. "I never said I grew up in the first place."

"Right, my mistake." Virgil cleared a tangle of dangling wires out of their way as they stepped over a pile of crushed concrete, rebar, and steel. Ignoring the look that was most likely on Gordon's face at the sight of it, Virgil got a sneaky quirk to his lips. "You're gonna hurt for that one, you know that."

"I was an innocent bystander, kidnapped by my own brother. You know, statistically, a kidnapper is a member of your own family. I should call a hotline right now. You look kinda shifty to me."

"You're," Virgil rolled his eyes in search of the right insult and came up with nothing. "Shifty."

Beaming, Gordon pointedly ignored the electric whip of the wires falling back into their ugly, twisted place. "Never said I wasn't."

"For a guy who never said anything, you never shut up."

Gordon zipped his gloved thumb and forefinger over his lips. When you've won, you go gracefully.

They took what was left of the hall ramp that, on the right, went past the somehow undisturbed announcements case — Gordon oddly wondered if he could sneak in to watch the Damn Yankees callbacks this afternoon — where it listed a freakish number of kids with perfect 4.0 GPAs. They must've graded on a curve. To their left was a set of crumpled loading doors. Next to that stood a set of stairs leading down to the cafeteria.

Gordon smelled it before they were down even the first set of gray-painted steps. "Ugh, that's nasty."

"What?"

"Something's burning and been burning for a while." Virgil side-eyed him but didn't say anything. "Seriously? You don't smell that?"

Virgil's screwy eyeball and far too big eyebrow said no.

Except for a few overturned tables where kids had barricaded themselves, there wasn't much of anything remarkable until a quick step into the institutionally gray kitchens showed a few gas-run heating elements that didn't get turned off under the dishes in what must've been the mad rush to shelter when the sirens went off. Ha! Take that! Oooh, and cookies!

"You really didn't grow up," Virgil muttered, twisting knobs to kill the flames. Gordon ignored him, all Drool, Sustenance, Gimme. Virgil slapped at Gordon's hand. "You know they have to account for every single one of these, charred or not, right?"

Gordon whimpered, all sad little toddler, and reached out with his hands clenching and grabby — But, Virg, cookies! — but he still didn't take one. Sometimes it was more fun to make the others think he needed a scolding. They got to get it out of their systems, and he got to see them make those pitiful, ever-suffering faces. He was kind of proud of Virgil for resisting the temptation to patronizingly pat him on the head like he so obviously itched to do. Good for Big Brother.

Clearing the two-thousand seat auditorium came next. The stage area was deep with great acoustics (according to Virgil), and other than a teenaged girl with loose braids, flannel shirt, and torn jeans who fell asleep in the orchestra pit and apparently slept through the whole thing, they made it through there pretty easily, too. Considering all the weights and cables and tools laying about, he couldn't believe they didn't have more damage or blood around.

Gordon still kept an uneasy eye on Virgil's boots as he kicked things out of their path. Those drama kids would have to rebuild the entire set — and buy new tools to do it. Those were some twisted, gnarled saws and screw drivers. The thought that one of them might have been picked up in a downdraft and flung into a wall at a hundred and fifty miles an hour or worse — ugh. Oh, wait, there was one, buried to the hilt in the concrete wall of the control booth. Gordon shivered.

The girl, though? She creeped Gordon out the most. How did anyone sleep through that kind of thing?

Virgil shrugged at the question. "Scott says he used to sleep through mortar attacks all the time. You get used to the noise, maybe?"

"Not making me feel better." Gordon backhanded Virgil's biceps, although the effect was probably lost between the weight of his work gloves and flight suit. "And what kind of ordinary noise could possibly sound like a tornado right over your head?"

"You've been through one like that. I thought they sound like freight trains?"

"I guess. I wasn't so much listening and thinking Johnny Cash as I was Don't die or Dad'll kill me."

Another storm rolling over the area conspired with sunset to drop them into darkness as they cleared the rest of the hallway without saying much of anything beyond shouts of "Hello" and "Echo". At the junction at the top of the ramp, they took a perfectly intact stairwell up one level to the first floor of the green wing of the school. Yes, the sections of the school were color-coded. How very OCD of somebody on the city planning committee. The green floors, based on what they could tell, were the science rooms on the first two floors and the offices and music rooms on the third. In the music room, they found two kids buried under a drum kit who were damn lucky the cymbals didn't do more damage to the one boy's shoulder, but they were otherwise unharmed.

It wasn't until they took the corner into the third floor orange hall (health and special ed and oh so many lockers) that they discovered the green hall and its building was the only air-conditioned part of the school. The storm had sucked out the heat, but it left the humidity to the point that Gordon was pretty well drenched. Yuck.

Another corner and major stairwell put them on the second floor (huh?) of the blue hallway, if the room numbers were any indicator. After a bank of hideous blue lockers, they found a room full of probably twenty kids in a combination Spanish/French/German room. The speech team's escape had been blocked by a fairly sizable pile of old wooden-metal hybrid desks and a door from across the hall. Two of the three windows in the room had blown out, leaving several kids bloodied and splatter movie-looking, but their classmates (some of them, anyway) had done a good job of looking out for the injured. Their coach didn't make it. Someone had put a pile of letterman jackets over her torso and head. Yeesh.

They parked a camping lantern on a desk and stayed with the kids long enough for Virgil to help John to direct the next EMTs in the rotation through the mess and keep the kids calm. Virgil bandaged one girl's leg while she yelled at her boyfriend (he assumed) when he didn't love her enough to cover her instead of his own head when Callan did for Liz and what the hell kind of boyfriend doesn't care about his girlfriend like that?

Gordon had a lot more fun with the linebacker-sized guy who asked with a polite and strangely small voice if he could use Gordon's phone. "My mom's gotta be losing it out there."

"Sorry, man, I don't carry a phone." It was weird. Gordon could actually feel himself have to think about his answer and how truly weird it was. "Come to think of it, huh, I don't even own one."

Linebacker blew him off. "Whatever. You don't have to lie to — "

"No, seriously, I don't. I, well, I live on an island in the middle of nowhere. Any calls I make to the mainland, we have a satellite and video system for."

Linebacker gave him a look that Gordon had no trouble interpreting as You're a dumbass. "They have cell phones in Hawaii. They get along just fine."

He thought about changing the subject — How 'bout them Twins, huh? — but the EMTs arrived to save his sorry (and apparently dumb) ass. So he grinned instead and jerked his thumb over shoulder at the bulky guys with the even bulkier bags. "These guys will get you down to the street here in a few minutes. I'm sure someone will have a phone you can use."

"Sure."

"Stay safe, dude."

Five hours in and half the hallway down, they came to what looked like a journalism room full of badly damaged computers and one those old huge paper cutters with the arms that come down and chop off people's heads in horror movies. (He'd seen one once.) The light fixtures had exploded all over the place, along with the a couple of the computer monitors. Tables were overturned. Gordon looked down to find Kelly Schulte's paper on Ivanhoe under his boot. She got a D for Damn. Also? Ivanhoe. Poor girl. At least it wasn't The Great Gatsby.

There they were again. Heebie Jeebies.

Gordon couldn't really say much after that. He definitely cringed, though.

"You're quiet," Virg said a half hour-ish later, but it was more nosy, I'm not sleeping tonight until you do so spill question than casual observation.

Yep, Gordon so should've volunteered to suffer Johnny's yappy ass. Trying to figure out how the Human Computer got from Square B to Circle J was mildly entertaining and generally kept the focus off him. You work with what've got, though, so he kept it pleasant enough and said, "Turn it off, man."

"Sorry."

Another minute and what looked like a, ugh, blood trail later, Gordon couldn't help himself. "These jobs creep me out. Give me the deep any day over this stuff."

"I thought you wanted me to back off?"

"Casual conversation and nuisance prodding aren't the same thing, no matter what Scott and John have taught you."

"Passive aggressive doesn't really look good on you, Tommy Bahama." Virgil, the passive aggressive king, left it at that and walked a few steps ahead. Gordon could either catch up and start up a new conversation, or he could take the hint and get it off his chest. Either way, it was up to Gordon. He kinda loved Virgil for that.

Which was exactly why Gordon took the out. He did the talking thing when it was necessary — he had the scars on the bottoms of his feet to prove it — but right now, it wasn't necessary.

Deflection was necessary, and a lot of it.

"Speaking of, we need a shopping trip. I'm down to all of five shirts again. The Illiterate One decided cleaning directions were optional and washed three of them in the washing machine last month."

"Be nice," Virgil said, although the scolding tone couldn't hide the snort that came before it. Who he was scolding, Gordon or himself, wasn't entirely obvious.

"Thunderbird Two from Thunderbirds One and Five, come in."

Gordon snorted. "It's like he's psychic or something. He knows you're talking naughty about him."

Scrunching his face, Virgil didn't have to bother saying Shut up, moron. The raised eyebrow was good enough. Gordon returned the favor by twanging the Deliverance porch music in the back of his throat and stabbing an imaginary knife into Virgil's Ignoring you now, turning back.

"Go ahead, 'One."

"Kill kill kill kill, ha ha ha ha, kill kill kill kill, ha ha ha ha," Gordon themed at them some more in the background.

Virgil didn't plan ahead and swiped at him with his watch hand. As Gordon danced out of the way, Scott asked, swinging radically through the air and through tinny speakers, "Do I even want to know?"

Ten bucks said he had his palm over his head like an old Southern woman who needed her spirits to cope with her unruly children.

"That's a negative."

"Gordon, stop antagonizing your brother," Scott said, sticking up for Virgil and repairing their whatever the hell their fight was about for the good of all Tracykind (he hoped). Score!

Clearly, the two of them were going to go off into their own little world again, so Gordon walked ahead a room. He wasn't about to leave Virgil behind or anything; he'd never do that, not in this mess of wire intestines and DIY head pikes (they were in a social studies/history area, it looked like, so, you know, theme). He peeked into the next room, which had been decorated with funky cut papers with scribbled quotes by guys like Sid Vicious and some of the beatnik poets, an anarchist flag twisted in a knot with an American flag, and all kinds of expressions of Hey, I get you for the kind of teacher who tries far too hard to be cool. This was a teacher who never took a Kerouac road trip but wished like hell he had now that he'd hit mid-life. Poor guy. He was probably cool-bald now, too.

"Let's roll," Virgil said with a clap on what remained of the doorframe to the room. "'Five picked up a cluster of thermals upstairs, and that collapse we heard over west has Scott stuck down in the library for at least the next half hour or so."

"He's okay, right?"

"It's just a blocked exit. He's good."

Gordon sighed. That was good. Real good.

Stupid tornadoes.

"How many times did he ask if I was okay?"

Virgil smirked. "Only the once. But that's probably because he's still ticked at me for the other day."

"He's loosening up the smother in his old age. You, on the other hand, are wound tighter than a — "

Banging and what could be faint yelling down around the corner at a junction to a yellow brick (road) hall pulled them both up short. "We're making a pit stop, Mobile Control," Virgil said into his watch as Gordon approached what he could of the door.

"Hello? This is International Rescue. Is somebody in there?"

A chorus of frightened screams of "Get us out" was all the yes they needed.

Virgil called up to confirm with Alan and John while Gordon said through the door, "Okay, guys, we've got a bunch of debris stacked up here in front of you. While we're getting it out of the way, can you tell us what's going on in there? How many of you are there? Is anybody hurt?"

There were six girls, all from Miss Plocher's class. They got separated when the hallway was torn apart at the slight ramp from the old section of the building to the older section. One of the girls, Mackenzie, referred to it as the troll bridge. Gordon liked her. She was the only one who sounded at all in charge of what was going on in there.

"Sure, Mac," he told her when she asked if there was anything they should be doing. "You're already doing it. Just keep talking to us. Is anybody hurt in there?"

"We can't get Gi to wake up."

Virgil nodded toward the next piece they needed to unload, a hunk of what used to be cinder blocks and part of a steel wall housing for a junction box. Together they hefted it while Virgil grunted. "There could be a lot of reasons for that. Can you see where she's hurt?"

"There's blood everywhere."

"You guys have been in there a while. Sometimes it only takes a little scratch to make a lot of blood. Ask my buddy here; we see that all the time. So don't worry yet. Can you tell where it's coming from?"

"Her head? I think? It's back here by her neck and shoulder."

Virgil frowned but kept on unloading junk. "Okay, Mac, that's great. You're doing great. Try not to move her any, but can you tell me if there's a bump on her head?"

"I can't tell. It's too wet. There's something dripping down on us."

Both Gordon and Virgil started to kick quicker at what was left of the debris in front of the door until it was clear enough that they should be able to shove the door open. "Okay, ladies," Virgil called. "It looks like the hinges are a little hinky out here, so it's gonna be easier to get this door open if it's coming from your direction. Can you give it a good shove?"

"We can't. The handle's broken off on this side."

They both looked at the door handle's mechanism (what was left of it) and groaned. Yeah, they weren't getting in that way without some help. "Hang in there, ladies. We've almost got you. I've got a lock pick on me. Just try not to bang around in there too much, okay? Gi needs you to hold her still."

Lock pick? Virgil mouthed.

Gordon nodded. Unlike his brothers, who usually had large machines and even larger areas to work with, Gordon had been caught far too many times in confined areas where smaller tools were needed. They couldn't exactly bring the Thunderizer in here, but the pen-sized laser cutter Brains had developed for him would be perfect here.

His dentist wouldn't be all that pleased (more like livid) with the effort it took to get his right hand glove off. He had to run his tongue between his teeth to soothe away that gritty, nails-on-chalkboard shock working the nerves. Grandma's voice scolded him in the back of his head, years of reminders that his teeth weren't meant to rip the little plastic do-hickeys off clothes or to tear into that bag of Cool Ranch Doritos when his fingers got too sweaty to do the job. Naturally, he ignored her and attacked his left glove, too. What Grandma couldn't see wouldn't kill her, right?

Sparks crackled across the hall by what was left of what was labeled a janitor's closet. Yeah, that was a terrific sign, because they absolutely wanted to see sparks near cleaning solvents and used rags. Gordon flinched away from them as the dangling wires made contact with the steel door handle again. An echo of the sparks lit up Gordon's eyes. Or was it behind them? They were coming from enough directions that he couldn't tell for sure. He put a few extra steps between himself and the door, just in case.

That would've been fine, dandy even, except the rumbling and explosion didn't come from the janitor's closet.

It's funny how one minute there's a floor under you, and then the next you're pulling a Wile E. Coyote, running on the air as long as you don't look down and see you've run off the cliff right over the deep, nasty canyon.

Gordon knew he shouldn't have time, but if he did, he would've blurted out a little Free Fallin' for Virgil's benefit. Music always made Big Brother Three relax. But in less than a full bar there was solid ground or metal or whatever the hell it was under him that didn't give a damn what his singing voice was like. It was more like Hulk, Smash! all through Gordon's body instead.

In other words, yeah, that hurt.

Big Brother Three's face appeared over the edge of what was left of the second floor about twenty feet up. Good. That meant he'd been able to throw himself far enough away from the center of the blast so that only one of them had to look like an idiot sprawled all over some twisted hunk of metal that might once have been a desk. "Gordon?"

Gordon threw one arm up in a wave, too winded to bother with a simple Uh huh or Ow, motherfucker. Okay, that sucked mud-guzzling algae (the red kind). Air could come any time now.

No, really, any time now. Air would be nice.

Hello … Lungs? Don't you have something you're supposed to be doing right about now?

It was hard to tell in the stew of concrete dust, but it looked like Virg maybe closed his eyes for a second there. His head definitely dropped before he raised it and shook it with a screwy pucker of his lips and clapped his hand on the ledge. His grinning "Sonofabitch" easily translated to a dumbly awed Man, you've got nine lives.

"Uh-huh," Gordon managed to grunt. He flashed a thumb up and let his arm drop like a lead weight onto his chest. He had all of five seconds before Scott started demanding in far too loud a voice for a sitrep Gordon didn't have the voice or lung capacity to give him. He wanted to enjoy those seconds for the peace and quiet they were.

In and out. Five. A little easier this time, in and out. Four. In, shake and rattle a bit, out. Cough. Three. Nothing. Two. One.

When it was John's voice that came through asking if everyone were okay, Gordon couldn't help wondering if he had somehow knocked Scott out or gagged him or blackmailed him with some dirty pictures from their last Lost Weekend. "Gordon? Virgil? What's going on over there?"

Snicker.

Gordon half-heartedly waved at Virgil — He's all yours — and closed his eyes. Just a few more seconds would be great. He did a full body check as quickly as he could, knowing he could only stay quiet for so long before Scott became mildly curious (a nice euphemism for Crawling out of his skin freaked out). As much grief as they all gave him for it, and yes, probably exaggerated how bad it was now and then, Scott did have a job to do as their field commander. That it fit in synergistically with his desire, which was quite understandable under his personal circumstances, to protect them all from the big, bad world was something they had learned to not take for granted. Gordon did have a responsibility to help Scott with that job. Besides, he didn't have it in him to be that mean. He knew how much Scott suffered when he didn't have complete control over pretty much everything in the field. (See? Exaggerating. Scott could totally cool his heels for now.)

Still, a little breathing room would be nice, which meant he needed to get up and do it of his own volition before Virgil saw any hesitation on his part.

Yep. Getting up now. Any second.

Before all of the Big Tracy Three descended. Because nobody wanted that.

Really. Up. Now.

Gordon choked back a scream as he pushed to his feet. White hot pain ripped through his entire body like the opening DNA of the old X-Men movies. Whatever he'd landed on, it was going to leave one helluva bruise. Bending over to catch his breath only made it worse. With all the busted glass around, he'd probably sliced himself up like a Thanksgiving turkey on the way down. Terrific. Slowly, he straightened up so he could catch a glance up into the hole he'd fallen through and look for where the missing window might be.

At the same time, he reached behind to feel for the glass, just in case it might still be in there. Wouldn't that be his luck today? Tornado and stitches. Sing it out, if you know the words: Fun, fun, fun.

"You coming or what?"

Gordon stared at the smudges on his fingers. Huh. So that was probably more than a scratch back there. "Yeah. Um … ow? I think I, um … " Gordon sat down hard enough to feel the impact on his tailbone in his teeth. "Something bit me."

"It's Minnesota in June, man. Mosquitoes are — " Virgil must have seen something he didn't like when Gordon turned to try again to swipe away the unrelenting, unofficial state bird because he flipped the switch on his business voice. "Gordon, stop that. Don't move. I'm coming to you."

Oh, good. That sounded good.

Pinocchio let himself sit there, slumped up against a hunk of cinder blocks that used to be, if he was reading right, the wall of an English classroom. Yoda was missing his legs and the arm holding his cane, but he still wanted Gordon to read. Good for him. The sparks coming from up, up, way up there where he used to be reflected off Yoda's hand as if George Lucas's grandkids decided the invisible Force wasn't enough and light effects were needed. They really needed to stop messing with the classics, man.

"Gordon?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"It's gonna take a minute. I seem to be missing some stairs."

"They came down with me, I think. Sorry."

"Just give me a sec to get anchored?"

"Yepper."

"Don't move."

"Copy that."

Gordon watched, humming old WASP cadences to himself because he didn't exactly like the quiet and spark serenade, as Virgil did his best to repel down through two floors that didn't really exist anymore. It wasn't like there were good places to get a good grip with his feet to push down. There probably wasn't much that was stable enough up top there to anchor to either. He was only about half way down one floor before Gordon really wanted to tell him to wait up there. He could find another way out and meet him somewhere else. They could patch him up enough to get home and stitch it up there.

Of course, to tell him that, he'd need to be able to catch his breath, which was getting increasingly harder to do. Ow.

As if Virgil knew what he was thinking, he called out, "Don't you even think about going anywhere. I'm almost there. I will get there."

Considering — Ow ow ow OW OW — that was when the gunpowder trail of pain finally decided it laughed in the face of adrenaline and set Gordon's entire body aflame, he wasn't in any position to argue.

"Virg? I'm — oh, god, Virg!"

"Scott, Johnny, I need you over here! Now!" Virgil said from what looked like it should be the ceiling of the level Gordon landed on, a lamp swinging from his waist belt to let him see who knew what. He didn't even wait to get to Gordon's side. That couldn't be good.

Scott's "Where's here?" wanted far too many answers like How bad? and What the hell happened? and Why didn't you let me take him when we had the chance?, as if falling through the rabbit hole was so predictable and therefore preventable by his mere presence. Begone, nasty possibility! That was it, then. The soon-to-be-released berserker in Scott was gnawing at its chain. It would be interesting to see how long he could hold it back.

"Start at that closet we were busting open and go down, I guess? I think it was two floors, but this place is so weird with all the ramps. Yellow walls. Lockers. Another ramp."

"I can't get there until Fire gets this exit unblocked," Scott said. From the wince on Virgil's face, it hurt him to hear that edgy voice as much as it did Gordon. He'd hate to be Scott right now, too. But Scott was still Scott, still their field commander, and if nothing else he had to delegate. "John, hand over whatever you can and get to them. Patch EMT through to Alan so he can coordinate them with Fire and Police. It'll leave him a little blind, but they can deal with it."

"Scott, somebody's gotta get those girls out of the closet," Gordon reminded him (and them all).

"Gordon? What's wrong?" Scott asked. "You sound out of breath."

"Understatement." He put enough Uh, yeah, falling two stories will do that to you, Big Brother to make it obvious and move on. "Johnny, I'll be okay a bit. Get the girls out first. One of 'em — one of them is still unconscious as far as we know. We almost had them. You'll need a stretcher and — damn, ow — and somebody to help you with it." Gordon raised his eyebrows at Virgil as his feet hit the ground. "We did lose the stretcher on the way down, right?"

Virgil craned his head up the rope toward the huge freaking rabbit hole of doom and laughed. "Yeah, it's hanging off a rebar hook. Nice catch."

When he reached Gordon's side, he knelt so he could drop his pack and do all the usual concussion checks and all, but he surprised Gordon by skipping all that and went straight for behind. Virgil's whisper was sick at best. "Nice catch."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah." Virgil was back in front of him, like whoa, zippy comic book fast, tossing stuff from his pack and lining it up in front of his work lamp. "I need you to lay down for me so I can get a better look at this thing."

"Uh, what did I do?"

"I'm gonna help you roll over, lay down, and I'll tell you then."

"What did he do?" both John and Scott asked with perfect synchronicity, down to the timbre.

"I will mute you both."

Gordon snickered. Virgil could threaten them like nobody's business. Just for that — and the gibberish protests he could hear through Virgil's watch because he was badly in need of a little perverted torture humor right now — Gordon let himself be easily handled to where Virgil wanted him to be. He bit back a few groans and curses when he thought his spine decided to go the opposite way Virgil wanted him to go, but despite a few yells from Scott, they got him laying face down in the rubble. Virgil pulled what amounted to a work rag from his back pocket and put it under Gordon's cheek since it would be a little more comfortable to lay on than a work glove. Virgil was thoughtful like that.

"Well, kiddo, when you get hurt, you certainly like to go big. I'll give you that much," Virgil muttered as he undid the velcro panel in Gordon's sleeve that would allow him to attach the blood pressure cuff. Gordon heard him growl in the back of his throat, but he didn't say anything number-wise. Because that was always such a good sign, right? "Guys, I can't do much with this. We can't wait to get home. Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird Two?"

"Go ahead, Thunderbird Two."

"'Five, 'Four's down. He decided to skip the two flights of stairs down to the basement and fly instead. I need to be concentrating on getting him out of here." In other words, it's time to put Dad to work.

"I'll call base and get our list of available medical."

"Somebody who can be on standby for an evac, too, in case I can't get out of here with him."

"Copy that. How much do you want me to tell him?"

Okay, so Gordon was in a little too much pain to realize it probably wasn't a normal reaction to Get this thing out of me, but he was damn proud of how well Alan kept control with that call. Unlike Scott, who would always put the questions he wanted answered first (not that that was a bad thing) when one of them was hurt, John and Alan had both learned to prioritize the questions that needed asking. Gordon never took that personally. It was kind of (weirdly) awesome.

"Tell him he's got about seven inches of rebar coming out from his lower back through under the ribcage. If his lung isn't punctured, I'll be stunned. He's conscious and yammering his head off like always."

"FAB. I'll get back to you. Tell 'Four — "

"No worries, kiddo, I'm here," Gordon interrupted. "Rockin' and rollin'. Rebar-in'."

Palpable relief breathed in Alan's sigh enough that Gordon knew the kid was smiling, even if their brothers weren't. But then, Alan knew Gordon better than the others. He knew what it meant. "That's what I thought. Take a load off, 'Four. We'll get you out in no time. I'm the one you have to worry about. I have to tell him. Wish me luck. 'Five out."

That was Alan for you. Gordon had to smile, too, even though it brought on a nice coughing fit to suck in more dust and debris. There weren't words for how much that hurt, but it was worth it to hear Alan. Between Dad, Scott, and WASP, they'd all learned early on that you're only dying if people start talking to you like you are. Until then, it damn well better be shit talk all the way.

There'd be nothing but trash talk around here today. Hells yes. Good for them. It'd been a while since they'd had a full on bullshit session. Or rather, there would be, just as soon as he took a quick rest. He wouldn't be any good to helping Virgil with this if he didn't catch his breath. That part wasn't exactly working out real well.

Whatever else Virgil told Scott and John, Gordon zoned out from. He should probably bother to be curious about why Virgil had that urgency to his voice or why it felt like he should blink instead of stare at the sun. He closed his eyes to let the tears do the work to get rid of the stars in his eyes, but all he felt was sandpaper scratching them instead.

"Eyes, kiddo."

"What 'bout them?"

"Open. Keep them open."

"Lungs or eyes, dude, you can't," Gordon sucked in a stuttering breath, "can't have 'em both right now."

"Sure I can. I'm a demanding little jerk that way."

And there went the lungs because jerk brothers make their funny little jokes when you can't breathe. Ow. But hey, he got his eyes, right?

"Nice. Now the lungs, too."

"They are," Gordon tried to snap, but it came out sounding more like Fuck Off. Or maybe Cheeseburger, No Pickles. A sharp pinch to his thigh said Virgil translated that one just fine, which was good since Gordon didn't think he could repeat it without getting grounded for at least a week.

"You'll be grounded anyway."

"Huh?"

"You're rambling, kiddo."

"Out loud? I don't ramble. Not out loud. You don't let me."

"Of course not," Virgil said so placatingly he might as well have been petting Gordon on the head. Gordon didn't have to see his brother's face to know he was nodding and smiling to beat hell, too. "I'm a vicious dictator."

"Exactly. Alan and I never had," Gordon tried to suck in a breath and kinda failed, "had a chance with you around."

"Yeah, well, then listen to your dictator: Open your goddamn eyes."

"You know, if I didn't have a-a lifetime of brainwashing or conditioning or whatever, I'd — I'd tell you to fuck off anyway. I'm not a kid." Clearly, there was no room for Gordon to obey that order. Stupid dictators.

"A hundred years from now when you're drooling applesauce and Jell-O, you'll still be my kid brother. Deal with it."

"Yes, Lord Business." Gordon's robot impression was getting really good. Everything was downright awesome. Okay, maybe not, but his brother was. He should probably apologize. He was being difficult, and after all the times he'd been on the outside watching one or more of his brothers being a pain in the medical ass, he should know better. And yet: pain in the ass/little brother. Some responsibilities deserved to be upheld. "Sorry, man."

Virgil flicked his left ear, which was one of the only parts Gordon could say didn't hurt at the moment. Virgil was awesome. Virgil was a fucking menace.

Then Virgil's hand was gone, only to be replaced by the sounds of ripping paper. Bandages. Great.

Distraction definitely needed, Gordon bit the bullet he'd been hanging onto for a special occasion. "Virg? I've been thinking."

"Well, that's a first."

Gordon pulled a face, not exactly sure why. It was a natural response. Any sibling anywhere in the world would've said the same in any language. It was the natural order of things. Little(r) brothers get pummeled with stupid remarks about how ugly or dumb or whatever they were. And yet — buddyfucker, get this thing out already — he supposed the pain was making him a little more sensitive to stupid stuff he shouldn't give a fuzzy rat's ass about.

Virgil squeezed the back of Gordon's neck, a confused question, with one hand while he kept doing whatever he was doing back there with the other.

"I'm not an idiot, you know."

"Hmmm" was all Virgil said. So either he disagreed or he had something stuck between his teeth. A second later an intense pressure on his back said his brother needed a fist stuck between his teeth.

"I'm not," Gordon hissed between his.

"Never said you were."

"People," he gasped, did a few lamaze breathing tricks between sharp blasts across his shoulders, and pushed through, "assume. Dumb jock … the only Tracy this generation — damn it — who didn't go to college, all that."

"Not us. And eyes, man. Follow a damn order once in a while."

Virgil's voice had Gordon's eyes popping wide. He sounded almost angry, even while his hands worked around the worst of Gordon's pain in wispy, gentle motions. It was an odd contradiction that Gordon most definitely wanted to be awake for. Only Scott or Virgil could do that, and no matter how many times he'd seen them do it, he couldn't figure out the how.

"We know exactly who was standing behind that podium on graduation day delivering the valedictory speech. We know exactly who it was WASP recruited to do things they didn't want to let people twenty years older than you do because they didn't think they had the knowledge or sense to do it. We know exactly how brilliant you are. The question is, I guess, do you?"

Gordon flinched. He had better control than this. There was a reason he hardly ever got hurt, and it wasn't because he was anywhere near as bad a patient as Alan or Scott. He did the encouraging the others while they sat in pain and misery thing, not the other way around. The others counted on him for that. Virgil was miserable. That meant Gordon had a job to do. Virgil needed to know that, too. Brushing it off, he said, "No, the question is, I know, did you hit your head on the way down here? Because either you hit your head, or you think I'm dying and need to have that little chat."

"Fine." A paper wrapping ball for a bandage landed in front of Gordon's nose. There were thick smears of blood on it that didn't look so good. Virgil probably didn't look too good either, and that wasn't only because he was audibly ticked to high heaven. "Loser."

Gordon would've grinned, but his face hurt too much to get there. "I just assumed."

"Yes, I know, Virgil is so dull because he's too artsy and has shitty taste in music. I couldn't possibly get why you think you're labeled the dumb jock. Not in the least."

"No, good taste in music. Shitty taste in art."

"Shut up. Like you could even name a primary color."

"Unmellow Yellow," Gordon said a little breathlessly. His job in the cheering section would have to be a little less exuberant. "Take that, douchecanoe."

Virgil laughed, snorted, whatever it was that was such a specific sound people make when they don't want to be laughing because this really wasn't all that funny at all. Good enough.

His job accomplished, Gordon closed his eyes. Just for a second.

"No, damn it, Scott, I can't ask him. He's been zoned out for over two minutes. Where the hell's that stretcher, John?"

"Okay, I'm up. I'm up." Even Gordon didn't like the way he slurred that, like he was on an endless loop of fighting with Scott about getting up for school at the end of the year. "You don't have to yell."

"Gords?" Virgil's hand was light at the back of his neck, comforting, but Gordon wasn't sure who needed the comfort at the moment. "Damn, kid, stay awake here. Scott's about to have a coronary, and then where would your stretcher be, huh? Under his lazy ass, that's right."

Gordon wanted to tell Virgil to back off. Yes, he got it, he'd scared the living daylights out of him, but still. Big hole in the floor not exactly his fault. Scott did the best he could, and considering the guy was probably about to lose his crackers on so many different levels, well … Yeah, Virg needed to back off. No yelling. Yelling hurt the ears. And the eyes. And the brain. No yelling.

"I will if you keep your eyes open."

That whole mind-reading thing Virg had going on needed to cut it out now.

"Quit talking like you don't know where you are, and I will."

"Okay, now you're just a freak." Gordon let his head make the slow motion turn to the other side, mostly because he was afraid if he just let himself pass out it would hurt a whole lot more. Not that Gordon feared pain. He figured he'd already been hurt the most he could ever be hurt and not die, and he'd managed to get through that one. Maybe not with flying colors, but he did get through it. This thing? Piece of cake.

"Piece of rebar, actually."

"Shut up. You're interrupting my pithy internal monologue where I hate you for — for being a damn mind reader. That was supposed to be — supposed to be my thing."

"Huh?"

"Not such a Kreskin now, huh?" It took two tries, but Gordon tapped the face of his watch with his nose. "Thunderbird Five from Thunderbird Four? Al, you there?"

"Yeah, 'Four, I'm here. What did you do to 'One, dork? He's hitting Defcon Crazy down there."

"Would you tell Virgil he's en-encroaching on my territory and shut up?" Gordon thrust his fist back in Virgil's general direction so that he could see Alan from his watch, confident that Alan would back him up. But just in case, he reminded him, "Pinky swear, dude."

Alan's voice came through so very droll. "Gordon has the corner market on whatever it is he thinks is his territory. There. Now will one of you please update me? Base is about to go thermal on me."

"Virgil's gone mind reader on us," Gordon said at the same time Virgil said, "Gordon keeps confusing rescue with nap time."

From thousands of miles away, Gordon could feel Alan go stiff. Even if he couldn't see him, he could hear it in Alan's "Say again, Virg."

"He keeps zoning out on me."

"I need a number, Gords." Alan didn't sound at all happy as he added, "On the Gordon scale — and no fudging."

Alan would know, too, if he fudged it. Damn. Simply from the nature of where they were in their lives at the time, Alan was the only one of their brothers fully available to Gordon after the hydrofoil cluster. It wasn't his fault he was the only one at home yet, but the kid had stepped up big time, especially considering how young he'd been. But much like John had become Scott's only real confidant about those days after he'd been shot down, at least for a few years, Alan had been the only one around for all of it when it came to Gordon. The burns, the grafts, the tearing skin as he tried to grow more. Every single physical therapy session while he tried to bring raw muscle back enough to get him on his feet. All the ripping, tearing, gnawing ugly. It was a too-young Alan who watched every seared, charred raw nerve have to fight to come back, and he didn't mean only the physiological ones. Alan would definitely know if he was lying.

"Eight, Al." Gordon took in too much dust and coughed, which made his lungs scream. He made sure to keep his eyes open as much as he could to avoid Virgil's wrath. He slid them in his brother's general direction. "Seven if I ignore Virgil and think of something pretty."

Channeling John's calm, which, good for him, Alan asked, "Where?"

"Under my rib cage. Lungs."

"No kidding, jackass. Specifics, please. You're feeling the rebar?"

"Whenever it moves, yeah."

"How far?"

"Tailbone."

"Anywhere else?"

"Everywhere down if I try to move. Scraping bone. Face. Throat. Arms are kinda wobbly. I can't really feel my feet."

Alan was quiet for a moment, long enough that Gordon wondered if he'd finally given in and passed out. He must have, or somewhat zoned out, because when he realized Alan was talking again, he had missed at least one exchange between him and Virgil.

"No, it's the nasal passages. The hydrofoil fire pretty much burned them down to nothing but nerves. It's why he can smell everything before we can. He doesn't complain about it, but Virg? It really hurts him, even on a good day. You need to get him on oxygen."

"I need to keep him talking," Virgil argued.

"Even if only for a few minutes. Trust me. He'll focus better. With all the debris floating around you guys, it's a wonder he can breathe at all. And massage the nerve in his hand by his thumb if you can. It'll clear his head a little. How's he doing otherwise?"

"Still hyperventilating every other word, but the stubborn brat refuses to lose consciousness. I'm doing what I can to keep him focused, but what's — he's listening again. Hey, Gords."

So he didn't pass out then. He just felt like he wished he could. Fabulous.

Gordon fumbled around to find Virgil's wrist to give it a good squeeze. He sounded like he wished he could pass out, too. "You need a beer, man. Settle your nerves."

Through the speaker in his watch, Gordon heard Alan laugh. "He's got a point," Alan added. He didn't exactly sound like his hills were alive with the sound of music either.

"You, too, Al. Somebody's gotta have a clear head around here, and clearly that's me. Drink. And none of that shitty three-two beer you tried to pawn off on me that weekend in — ow. Damn it. Shit!"

"What do you need?" Alan asked because, when it came to what Gordon needed, they both knew only Gordon could say. The others weren't used to that, but then, Gordon had been lucky enough since the IR start up not to be severely hurt. Well, lucky them, they were about to get a crash course now, huh?

From over his shoulder, Gordon heard Virgil lose his cool only a little. "You and me, little brother, are going to have a nice, long chat about withholding information when this is over. And if you are oh so very lucky, Scott won't be guarding your escape when we do. Now answer Alan's question before I lose my temper."

"I need to get," Gordon clenched his fist as if it could hold on to his breath, "this damn rock off my back."

"That's the rebar, man, and we're working on that part. Talk to me. Legs, feet, hands, what?"

"Everything's on fire, guys. It's more — more a question of what's — damn it — n-not. Try the ears."

From up above, like he was a wannabe saint there to rescue him from all these silly questions, John called Virgil's name. "I've got three EMTs with me, so once we get these girls out, I'll be right down. What's happening with Gordon?"

"His blood pressure sucks," Virg yelled, sending colors sparking in Gordon's vision. "He's zoning out but not losing consciousness. He told Alan it's an eight — on a Gordon scale, whatever the hell that is."

"So he's in a good mood, then," John said. "He'll kick my ass when this is over if we don't get these girls first. Give me ten minutes, tops."

"We can do that," Gordon answered. There wasn't much power behind it, but Virgil heard and repeated it for him. He didn't sound too happy about it, but he did it. It took a few breaths for Gordon to add, "Thanks."

Zippy, You're an idiot Virgil seemed to have disappeared when Gordon's mind wandered. Quiet, Don't My Brothers Know They Aren't Supposed To Get Hurt? Virgil had taken his place. His voice was far too small for Gordon's liking when he said, "Just stay awake for me, okay?"

A breeding-like-rabbits pile of bloody bandages caught Gordon's peripheral vision. That was a lot more blood than he was expecting. It made Gordon hurt in ways this stupid piece of rusty metal couldn't. Tired, too. God, that was a lot of blood. He'd scared the living hell out of his family now twice in his life, between the tornado and the hydrofoil. He'd promised himself a long time ago he wouldn't do that again. It was probably (definitely) a moronic promise to make, knowing what they did, but he'd given it his best shot. He couldn't break that promise now.

"Virg?"

"Don't worry about it," Mind-reader Boy said. "You've done worse."

"I've done worse."

"Yeah, you have, so keep your eyes open. You can do this."

It hurt his face to do it, but Gordon smiled. "You realize I'm s-staring at the ground so it doesn't matter whether … I have my eyes open or not … right?"

Damn near breaking his clenched teeth, Virgil said, "And that right there is why you aren't in charge of your own pain management, Hot Dog. Stay awake."

From back behind Gordon's shoulder, Virgil reached over and clasped Gordon's wrist right in front of his eyes where he could see it. The other hand did something back there that couldn't really be described by polite words. Hell, the words hadn't been invented by some clever nine-year-old yet. Clearly Gordon wouldn't be allowed to sleep now, no matter what. To prove his point, Virgil squeezed hard enough that Gordon could either press his eyes shut and play his macho alter ego, Super-Aqua (WithKevlarJustInCase) Boy, or give in and sleep all the way home.

To make that tough decision easier, Virgil asked, "So you were thinking something, smart guy?"

"I was?"

"Maybe being half-skewered is good for the brain. Quick, solve the mysteries of the universe before we patch you up. World peace is in that noggin somewhere."

"I've been trying to tell you guys that for years, but somehow I can't even give you Tracy peace. I guess the world'll have to wait."

Ouch. Gordon clenched his teeth punishingly hard around the little ball of scar tissue everybody has in their cheeks from a lifetime of biting. Yes, Scott and Virgil had been a little rougher on each other than usual lately — hence Virgil kidnapping Gordon, which was probably yet one more thing to tick Scott off — but it wasn't that bad. Not bad like the epic battles Dad and Alan used to have back in the day bad. Not bad like some of the shouting matches Scott and Alan could get into sometimes. He certainly didn't mean to be hurtful to Virgil, and no, he couldn't work out exactly what was hurtful about what he'd said, but Virg didn't hide the hurt quick enough. Gordon changed direction, doing his best to focus, focus, eyes open, focus because, well, it might be awhile before they could have this conversation for real. Alan would appreciate the change of topic, anyway.

Gordon sucked in a deep enough breath to get it out, which got him coughing again. Once the red hot fuck of it settled out, he said (well, whispered), "Actually, I was just thinking Alan's ready."

"For?"

"Lost. To get lost. We haven't been lost for a long time now. I know he and Tin-Tin are trying to be a thing again, but they've been trying to be a thing since they were kids. He needs … He needs to have danced with a girl besides her sometime before the thing is really a thing. He's the only one not lost. He needs to get lost. I'm lost. So lost. What was I — tired, too, but lost. Virg, I'm tired."

"Gordon?"

"Hmmm?"

"One, two, three, eyes on me."

Sing-songing the proper response "One, two, eyes on you" came easily, although Gordon couldn't remember how he knew it. He'd think about it later maybe. He didn't open his eyes, though. He was getting too droopy for that.

"C'mon. You need to — " Virgil cut himself off with an angry huff. Gordon was willing to bet he had blood in his hair from running his hands through it now. "Do you really want Scott to hear you yammering like this?"

"Wouldn't be the first time. You should tell him I need to take a walk, see what happens. He's heard me at so much worse. So, so much … God, that day. Today. It's Moving Day, you know. Al thinks he's the only one who's ever noticed, but — moving, move, moving day. But not for me. Moving hurts. You — I'm too tired to move."

"Gordon, I'll give you fifty bucks plus a free 'bird wash and detail if you'll shut up that kind of talk right now."

"Fine, you pick the conversation." But Virgil didn't say anything. Instead, he laid down in front of Gordon so that they were nearly nose to nose, like this was a freaking campout when they were kids or something. Or hiding under John's bed that time they snagged the last blueberry muffin from the counter that was supposed to be for Alan. Virgil blinked at him. Just blinked.

That definitely kept Gordon's eyes open. Big Brother had that thud kind of blank look on his face, the one that said he had been struck by something hard and heavy and didn't have fun doing it at all. Kinda like Gordon. "Virg?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not kidding. This really hurts."

But they weren't supposed to talk about that. Shit. Gordon punished his little cheek ball again.

On the other hand, Virgil, wow, he got green real fast. Green like his 'bird green. But damn, the man's hands were steady. He was good at that, keeping himself steady even when he shouldn't. Gordon couldn't. It was too dark down here to be steady. Yeah, it was dumb, considering how much time he spent in the deepest parts of the ocean without hope of sunlight for miles, but he hated the dark. Gordon Tracy, twenty-five years old and therefore considered a man even by insurance company drivers' standards, was afraid of the dark. He had been ever since he could remember. If anything else, it made the hurts hurt so much worse, like with Mom and Grandpa and really, could this stop hurting right now? Because Virg was really damn green, and that simply wasn't right. The work lamp shouldn't have been bright enough to see that much green.

"I'm okay. Promise." Then Virgil was gone, back to ripping packages and muttering curses to himself. Because that was a good sign. Uh-huh.

It was a good sign that Gordon chose to ignore. He teased half-heartedly, "Really? Because you look like deep fried hammered moose shit."

"And yet I'm still prettier than you."

"That's because I don't — " Gordon forgot what he meant to say, even if he was sure it was definitely a comeback for the ages, because ow, douchenozzle! Whatever Virgil was doing with his hands down near Gordon's ribcage was worthy of Nurse Ratched. It was enough to play Keep Away with Gordon's breath. And that searing blue-white pain? Yeah, it kinda out-stripped everything out there.

"Gordon?" Virgil sat up lightning quick and started snapping his fingers in front of Gordon's eyes, which made for some rather ragged lightning streaks behind his eyelids. "Damn it. Gordon, tell me. The one time I don't want you to shut up and this is what I get? Open your eyes. Talk to me. How could you possibly think you're prettier than me?"

"Sure," he grunted because pain needs to be grunted at, "as soon as you stop," grunt, "digging around back," grunt grunt manly badass grunt, "there."

Virgil sounded confused. "But I'm not digging. Gordon, I don't even have my hands on you right now."

"It's moving."

"So you said."

"No, the rebar. I can feel it scratching the bone when I — moving - breathing - Virg?"

"I'm right here." See? There it was again. Gordon could pretty much be crying — which, okay, yes, he was now because this fucking hurt no matter who you were — but Virgil would still keep his voice level when he needed to. And damn, Gordon needed him to. "Keep talking. See that ugly ass light up there? John's just about down. What did you mean, moving day?"

Gordon bit his lip. Damn it. He'd said something about that? He'd promised Alan. Evidence was still diligently (and slightly scarily) being gathered. Breaking the seal on this too soon would just be bad. Bad for Dad, bad for them, bad for everybody involved. Besides, so far, all Gordon really knew was that, even with Alan's barely flimsy evidence, Dad was simply trying to be better about giving them days off together, as a family. But Alan was convinced Dad was trying to keep them from getting separated like we were that day. Even six years later. Even with the Hood under the watchful eye of the best black ops security force on the planet. Dad would —

Dad. Gordon wanted his dad. Pathetic, and yet.

Gordon winced at another pinch. He didn't like being separated either. He felt more than heard how slurry his words were getting, like his tongue was swelling and hard to work around. "John's coming? Where's Scott?"

"I'm outta there and on my way," Scott's running huff said through the watch's tinny speaker. "Be a good boy and open your eyes."

"Like you can tell if they are or not," Gordon snorted.

"Open your damn eyes, little brother."

Whoa. Okay, that sounded like Scott was right there in his face. And that sure felt like Scott's hand on his arm, too. No, that was John. John's hands were smaller with longer fingers than Scott's stubby, wide hands. How Scott could throw his voice to John's body was probably a trick he didn't want to know how it was managed. It didn't much matter when he felt the sting of something being shot into his back.

"Hey, no pinching." Gordon tried to reach for the sting, but his arm felt like he'd spent ten hours straight in the weight room. It was there to feel it, though, right? He swallowed. "See? That part still doesn't hurt. Well … now it … it does."

The sting of a harder pinch on his arm made the colors swirl around Gordon's eyelids. He opened his eyes, hoping a little light would wash away the nausea, but then Johnny's ugly feet were right there. "Gonna be sick," he muttered.

"Good to see you, too, kiddo."

Comebacks like that deserved a little puke on the shoes. If only Gordon could remember what he'd had for breakfast. Give it a second. It would come to him.

Yep, there it was.

There wasn't anything else for a second. From the look on Virgil's face, when Gordon managed to get it in something of a soft focus, it had been a long damn second, long enough that there were one, two, yep, three pairs of hands on him now.

"Would someone tell me what's going on?" Alan demanded somewhere near Gordon's ear. He turned his head slightly toward the sound and found his hand was up by his ear, the watch face turned inside his wrist while Alan apparently took over eye-watching duty so the others could do whatever it was they were doing. Alan's face relaxed somewhat when Gordon stared at the face long enough. "Hey."

Gordon pushed weakly at the mask on his face until he could get it off enough to answer his brother. He couldn't not answer Alan, not right now. Not like this. "Hey."

"A syllable. That's a start."

"Get — tired." Gordon did his best to keep the slurring to a minimum, concentrating on the words, big words, what they meant and how to say them. Words were tough, man.

"Syllables, it is then."

"Al?"

"Yeah?"

"High school sucks."

"Fuckin' A, Bubba."

Gordon would've given Alan a thumbs up over that one. Now that he'd grown up some, it was rare for Alan to full out curse anymore unless he was stressed. That was left to Scott and himself and Dad, because it didn't matter how long you were out, the military had a way of indoctrinating its people into the lovely world of creative cursing. Spouses picked it up by osmosis. It was a truly lovely thing, and Gordon had no intention of ever giving it up. It was almost adorable the way Alan, John, and Virgil had somewhat managed to sidestep it with the rest of them around. FAB, indeed.

Alan's face was dwarfed by John's as John got in nice and close where Virgil had been not too long ago. "Gordon, we need to put the mask back on, okay?"

"Al?"

John put his hand on the side of Gordon's head, gentle but strong and everything John. He smelled a lot better than Gordon's lunch, too. "I'll do my best to keep your wrist right there, but it's about to start getting bumpy. Alan, keep talking to him. Gordon, we're all here now. We're goin' home, man."

"No," he shouted about as strong as a newborn kitten mewled. They had only cleared the school, as far as he knew. The rest of the town needed them, too. He'd seen the destruction as they set down at the top of the hill. This town, their jobs, they needed —

"It's okay. Breathe. Agent Eighteen and her team were chasing this storm," Alan interrupted, although his head looked kind of funny swirling around in the watch while he said it. "They're still in the area. Base turned them around back to town to help with the heavy lifting. They can't run our machines, but they can carry the injured out. Eighteen helped John and me with the upgrades on our weathers systems, and they're all EMT trained. They've got us covered, so let the guys get you out, man. You waited as long as you could, but now it's your turn."

"Scott?"

"Yeah?"

Gordon tried to paw the mask off his face, but Scott kept it firmly in place. He did lean down to catch Gordon's words, though, which would have to be good enough. Scott spoke Muffled Mask pretty fluently anyway. Gordon tried to put it in words, what he was thinking, remembering what it was like when Dad and Scott had found him when he'd been trapped at his own school after his own tornado. Seeing his Dad and Big Brother Badass storming through the rubble to get to him, the people here needed to be the ones seeing that now. That's what they were here for, whether Gordon was hurt now or not. Not everybody had a big brother and Dad who'd care to tear through the damage to get to a Gordon, even unhurt as he'd been.

And yet, all Gordon could get out was "Scotty".

Because Scott really was an awesome mind reader (unlike Virgil, who was just a freak, although Gordon was starting to forget why), he wrapped his fingers around Gordon's wrist. "I'll stay here, Gords, I promise. Virg, too, once he's got you situated. John'll stay with you and be bored out of his mind in Waiting Room Hell until Dad's people can evac us out of here. Dad's got Doc Saul on the way to meet you with the evac. It's gonna be fine. Alan, start talking."

He would've said "Sounds good", but the mask cut him off. Gordon blinked at everybody there and Alan instead. They'd get the drift.

Alan did as John requested and started yammering about who the hell really knew what. Ordinarily, Gordon would care a whole lot more. He'd always made the effort to listen to Alan, not just because he was the only one younger than him, but because he was a lot more interesting than people liked to give him credit for. Like Gordon, Alan had other interests outside of space or planes or rockets when it came to things that can go really fucking fast. Gordon with his boats and Alan with his cars made for conversations they didn't usually have with the others. It was usually fun.

Of course, Gordon would've sworn Alan was reading him the rough draft of the manual for the engine he and Virgil were working on for one of Alan's cars. He was that desperate for something to talk about. Oh, good grief.

But then, whatever words, good or bad, Alan was saying didn't matter because he'd talked over the warning that the others were about to turn him over to get him on a stretcher. After that kind of pain, who the hell cares?

What he did care about, though — and god, how he cared — was hearing all four of them scream his name as he involuntarily made a noise and finally gave in. He wanted to tell them he'd held on as long as he could, but, well there was pain and then there was —

Drip. Beep. Drip. Dreep.

He did a full body check, moving each little appendage as he could because, really, it might be the only way to pull himself up. He had to get up. He didn't know why, but somehow he knew his brothers were waiting for him — no, flat out needed him — to pull himself up, bootstraps and all. He ignored his back the best he could, figuring they would've dosed him up pretty hard if he was able to sleep. He could still feel the epicenter of the wound, throbbing outward to reach around and grab him in a full-barreled hug from hell, but he could breathe through it. The drugs seemed to be working enough that he could find his feet again without them burning, and his hands tingled only if he tried to move the left one, the one with the IV port. All in all, he'd had so much worse, right?

So yeah, it was time to wake up.

Drip, beep, dreep some more.

The machinery badly managing his pain for him until he could do it himself wasn't the loudest thing in the room, though. That prize went to his brothers — who else — because it wouldn't be the family sick room if at least two of them weren't yelling at each other about the patient, right?

This time around, Scott was yelling at Alan, but Alan was, as always, matching him decibel for decibel. "You should've told me."

"No, Scott, I shouldn't. If you had his tolerance for pain meds, you'd keep it quiet, too. You weren't here." Scott must've opened his mouth to interrupt, but Alan was quicker. "Stop. Wait. I know it's not your fault you weren't here. I don't blame you for that, and neither does Gordon. You had your own life to live and your own recovery to deal with. No Big Brother points got docked. But that doesn't change the fact that you weren't the one who had to watch him fight every day just to work through the pain to take a step that didn't feel like he was ripping his bones right out through his skin. It screwed with his head every damn day, and he did it without the help of any meds you or I would need to chow down like candy. They don't do him a damn bit of good and — "

"So if pain'll slow him down — " Scott tried to interrupt again. Oh, boy. Gordon almost felt sorry for him.

"It doesn't" came Alan's expected, punctuated growl. Poor Scott. Gordon had watched Alan fight this fight with Dad at first, too, until Dad finally learned to let it go. The thing Scott seemed to be forgetting right now was that Alan had four older brothers who were all stubborn, protective jackasses to go with his own stubborn, protective need to jackass. He had an entire stock saved up in a nuclear bunker somewhere. Scott was doomed.

And Scott was Scott, so he ignored Alan because, hello, jackass. "Damn it, Alan, I'm not talking about some rinky-dink run where we're in and out without needing stain spray when we get home. But if he's in that much pain from something that could be solved with popping a Tylenol for the rest of us, I — How much longer could he have held on with us yesterday if Virgil had known about this?"

"You're not listening."

"I am, but I don't think you are."

Alan growled again, pulling and flipping every little Big Brother toggle in Gordon's brain, clearing him out for good. He had to open up his eyes now. Alan needed him because Scott wouldn't — couldn't — back down on this. No matter how good Scott's intentions, this was Gordon's battle to fight with him (when he didn't feel so much like he'd pulled a chair rockin' Auntie Em in that tornado and rocked right on out of it backwards).

The first thing Gordon saw, which shouldn't have surprised him now that he smelled his light, beachy cologne, was John watching him. Big Brother Two smiled, so very relieved, and shushed his finger to his slightly puckered lips. Gordon frowned with his eyebrows. John, being fluent in Tracy Eyebrow (all seven dialects), nodded over toward Scott, who was pacing in front of a monitor screen to Alan up on 'Five. John still thought they needed to fight this out themselves, then.

"It isn't just about you," John said softly under more yelling. "This has been coming for a while. They need to get it out of their systems."

"This isn't about that," Scott yelled as if he'd heard them. "Alan, you promised me a long time ago there wouldn't be any more secrets. This kinda qualifies, don't you think?"

It was at a weird angle, but Gordon saw how Alan deflated to something calmer at that, which wasn't so much a surprise as it was uncharacteristic. But whenever that promise was made — which, why anyone would make that promise was crazy because no one, not even the most honest person in the world, could go without some secrets — it was some sort of key word, trigger, whatever that pulled Alan back. "This wasn't like that, Scott, I swear. Gordon, he hurts some every day. That isn't going to go away, no matter how much he or any of us wish it would. But he worked to get to this level of normal for him, and I have to respect that. So do you. If you were him, would you want everyone to know that? And remember, this is you we're talking about here. You, who worries and nags worse than Grandma. I'm not saying it's not well-intentioned nagging, but you nag."

"I don't nag." Gordon could hear Scott's Yeah, okay, I'm a nag smile vying for control of his cheek muscles there.

That made it the perfect time for Gordon to interrupt. "Yeah, you kinda do."

Wow, Scott could whirl around fast. He almost tripped over his own feet there. But then he was right at Gordon's side, all smiles and relief and just there. With so much tension gone from Scott's entire body, Gordon didn't want to waste the opportunity. He reached for Scott's wrist and squeezed.

"Hey, kiddo," Scott said, clasping Gordon's wrist in his free one. "Sorry for waking you up like that."

"Leave my only kid brother alone, you hear? You and me, we can have that battle some other day." Gordon raised his voice so Alan could hear, too. "Stand down, Al. I've got this."

"Kick his ass," Alan said, no Are you sure? or Gimme a break, I can handle Scott to be heard.

Scott ignored them both and said, "That's the second time you've tried to die on me when you knew damn well I couldn't get to you. Brat."

"Just trying to keep things lively. You were getting soft in your old age."

John reached forward with his thumb and index finger poised like a tweezers. "Yeah, that's some more gray there."

Gordon blasted out a laugh, which hurt like a sonofabitch. He sucked in a breath and held it, grunting it out in short bursts until it was gone, taking some of the pain with it. When he felt like he could put it into words, he didn't bother telling John not to make him laugh. There was no reason to jerk any of their guilt chains like that. He grinned at John, though — which, ow, face, nerves, OW — and said, "Johnny, you finally found a sense of humor."

"I've always had a sense of humor."

"No, a real one. Those programming upgrades you do on your computer brain don't count."

John, wise in his own old age, didn't have a comeback for that. No, he just stared. And stared. And stared.

Until Gordon gave in. "Okay, fine, you're a funny little fucker."

The funny fucker in question leaned back into his chair, weaved his fingers over his stomach, and stretched his long legs out in front of him without a word. All he needed was a cowboy hat to pull down over his eyes and a badge.

"Where're Dad and Virgil?" Gordon asked, ignoring Cowboy Dork over there.

"In the workshop." Scott's face got a little too glum. "Virg needed to bang some stuff around, and Dad had to stop him before he did it on the Les Paul anymore."

Gordon tried to adjust his body so he was turned more toward Scott to give him his full(ish) attention, but he felt the joy of the catheter and everything else plugged into him and cringed. No moving then, at least not until they got somebody down here to help with that. Yuck. He settled instead for closing his eyes and sinking into the pillow. "How bad?"

"He's a little wrecked on this one. One second you were there, then next, whoosh. Dad tried to keep him company by jamming, but you know Dad. He can't play for shit. Virg, he, well, like I said, the Les Paul is gonna need a little TLC."

Gordon nodded. He'd been there enough times when any of the others had done similar disappearing acts to know it messed with a guy's sleep for a lot longer than it took for a body to heal. Other shoe and all, Gordon probably would be banging some stuff around, too. Or, you know, kickboxing with big freaking rocks. He sucked in a breath, only coughed a little from a sting at the back of his throat, and called out, "Al, tell Dad and Virg I'm awake, would you?"

Alan didn't answer. A one-eyed glance at the screen said he was already gone, probably before Gordon even thought of it. Good move, little brother.

Scott smiled without looking at the monitor, obviously approving on a couple of levels, each and all brotherly.

That made it the perfect time to, in fact, kick Scott's ass. Gordon opened his other eye so Scott would know just how businessy he meant his business. "He was only trying to let me be normal, Scotty. Cut him some slack. Please?"

"We'll talk about it later."

"Hey."

The warning didn't seem to have any effect on Big Brother One, although the kindness in his voice did surprise Gordon a little. "Later. In the meantime, just do me a favor and think about ways we can both deal with it without ticking each other off. We'll figure it out, at least for out there. Deal?"

"Deal."

John agreed with a light snore.

Scott mimicked John's position, leaning into his chair and crossing his ankles, but he didn't close his eyes any. "Go to sleep, Gordon. You've had a rough night."

"You'll tell me what I missed later?"

"Sure, but you know the gist. Dad called in a favor, got Doc Saul on the chopper, and evaced you here. When you landed, you went all drama queen, dropped out the blood pressure, and then she sewed you up so you'll have a nice, sexy scar to add to your collection. Nothing we haven't done before. Dad didn't wave us off until a few hours ago. It's fine."

Gordon nodded because that was what Scott needed. It didn't matter how medicated or sleepy Gordon was; Scott needed to hear things were on the road to normal. Through a yawn, he said, "Picnic."

"Yep."

"I owe Virgil a really nice present, don't I?"

"Oh, yeah." Scott's crossed ankles ended up next to Gordon's ported hand so he could recline even further in his chair. "And that's after Les gets a new set of strings."

"I fucking hate tornadoes."

Scott nudged Gordon's hand with his socked toes. "You and me both, man. Go to sleep. I'll be here."

So will I, Gordon meant to say. He was pretty sure it came out more like another yawn. Good for him.

(May 2015)

Note: I realize there might be some questions, but know that they'll get answered in the next story (which should be done here in a few weeks). Thanks for your patience.