Floating.

The last he could remember, he was in Hawaii, assisting with the evacuation efforts. Virgil had been at his back, Gordon not far behind, the three of them in a race with mother nature, trying to beat out the storm that even John could see up on Thunderbird 5.

And then, all at once, they aren't behind him anymore, and Alan can't breathe.

"Hurricane Lucy," the young journalist had said, just before Virgil told her to pack up shop. "Hawaii's largest hurricane in over seven years."

They'd known it was coming, of course. The people who lived and worked on the islands had sandbagged their homes and emptied their basements. Airports had been at their peak capacity for days now, tourists cutting their vacations early and residents trying to get to safety. But many had decided to stay, and it's International Rescue's responsibility to make sure that those people don't get hurt.

But Alan is floating, and he can't remember how he got here, and he can't breathe.

It's not a feeling he's entirely unfamiliar with - weightlessness. It's the falling that's new. When he's spending time with the stars, there is no falling. Not even an up or a down. There's just floating. Nothing.

But this? This is different. He can feel this one. It's pressing up against him - banging against his eardrums and shoving on his chest like it's looking for a good fight.

His head feels heavier than anything else, throbbing and pounding and collapsing all at once. Through the sound of his heartbeat and the haze that stings his eyes, he can just barely make out the scarlet ribbons as they twist and twirl around his head. He reaches for them, but something in his chest stings at the movement and when he looks down, he knows why.

Alan has always been the one to wear red alongside IR blue, but not like this. He can see it staining his suit. He can see the color spiraling and exploding, and all he can do is think about John. About space. About the feeling that comes without gravity.

This isn't that feeling. Not quite. This one pulls him down, lower and lower until he feels like he's reached the center of the Earth and then some. He wonders when John will reach out to him and pull him back up, because all he can imagine is that he's being sucked into some deep, dark corner of space and that he forgot to put his helmet on beforehand.

He see's John's orange, blurring into sight - no. Not orange. Yellow. It's Gordon, and suddenly Alan knows why he's falling and why he can't get a breath in, but he still can't do anything about it. The water is so much heavier than he's used to and his heart has found a permanent home in his forehead.

But this isn't Gordon's first underwater rescue. Soon, Alan can feel his brother's arms lock around his chest and he's not sinking anymore. The pull strings at his side, but the pain is worth it once Gordon pulls him back up to the surface and he can breathe again.

Or cough. Coughing is more accurate.

Gordon flips his hair out of his face and smiles, a joke always waiting on his tongue. "You know, little brother," he says, and Gordon doesn't know it, but Alan can see him checking for vitals underneath all that false indifference. "The next time you want to go cliff diving, we should probably find you a cliff that doesn't have a forest of jagged rocks at the bottom."

Cliff diving? Why would he want to - ?

And then it hits him, harder than the rocks or the surface of that icy water could ever hope to. The journalist. She hadn't listened to Virgil and been blown from her post, the wind too strong and sending her slipping past the edge. Alan had been the closest, so he darted towards her, until the wind came too strong for him and he was the one who was falling. "Is she-?"

"She's fine, Alan," Gordon says, rolling over onto his back. Alan can feel his brother's kicks beneath his torso, as quick and steady as his heartbeat. "She's fine. You did good."

And despite his pounding head and burning side, Alan smiles, staring up at the sky and wondering if the people up there are smiling, too.